


The Home Is ......Series

by mtac_archivist



Category: NCIS
Genre: Character Study, Drama, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Not Episode Related, Not a Crossover, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-25
Updated: 2009-11-25
Packaged: 2019-03-02 05:45:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13311759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtac_archivist/pseuds/mtac_archivist
Summary: A series of one-shots that look at Tony and Gibbs in their private moments.





	1. First Glimpse

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Jessi, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [ MTAC](https://fanlore.org/wiki/MTAC), an archive of NCIS fanfiction which closed in 2017. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after August 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator (and this work is still attached to the archivist account), please contact me using the e-mail address on [ the MTAC collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/mtac/profile)

A/N: I ended my last story with the line ‘Let’s go home’ and that got me to thinking about the differences between public personas and private behavior. This series will be a collection of one-shots, centered on Tony’s and Gibbs’ private interactions. They aren’t sequential, and some may even be slightly AU (and will be noted as such, if that occurs), but they’re all intended to give a slice of life glimpse into their unguarded moments, and will be centered around, as the title implies, home.

The Home Is…..Series   
“First Glimpse” 

“The ordinary acts we practice every day at home are of more importance to the soul than their simplicity might suggest.” Thomas Moore

“Did you say you wanted mustard or mayonnaise on your sandwich?” Tony called, sticking his head through the open door to the basement, the sound of sanding and the smell of wood which wafted up the stairs to greet him causing him to smile. They had become more precious to him than the finest cologne or the world’s greatest symphony. 

“Mustard. Just on one side, though, otherwise I can’t taste the pastrami,” a voice yelled back. “What kind of cheese did you buy?” the voice asked, the sanding paused to make the question more audible.

“Swiss, of course,” Tony answered, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of the question, as if there was any other kind to have on a pastrami sandwich.

“You didn’t get those stupid pita shells to put it in again, did you?” the unseen owner of the voice demanded. “Mine fell apart before I even got it up to my mouth last time, and all the ingredients fell into my bucket of turpentine.”

“Are you kidding? Never trying that again; you bitched about it for a solid week,” the warmth in Tony’s sparkling green eyes revealing that he hadn’t really minded all that much, though. “I picked up some bagels on my way over, from that good place over on Lincoln. They should be sturdy enough to suit you.” 

“What’s wrong with good old fashioned bread?” the voice grumbled. “If you want variety it comes in white, brown or black.”

‘Oh, goodie, it’s going to be one of those nights!’ Tony thought, as he leaned into the doorframe, crossing his arms across his chest, preparing for the argument that was likely to ensue. “Empty calories,” he called down to the sander. “You know what the doctor said. You were supposed to ease up on red meat, carbohydrates and caffeine. As far as I can tell, you translated that to mean no more Sausage Egg McMuffins and hash browns on your way into work, and only six cups of coffee before lunch.”

Indistinct muttering could be heard coming up from the basement.

“I didn’t catch that,” Tony called down, a smirk on his face, knowing he had scored a point. The only answer he received was the resumed sound of sandpaper rubbing against wood, a nonverbal indication that the subject was closed. With a quiet chuckle, Tony pushed away from the doorway, and headed back into the kitchen. 

Gibbs’ kitchen had what realtors describe in their ads as ‘character’. The house had been built in the 1950’s and the kitchen had not been remodeled since. The speckled, white Formica counter tops had thousands of tiny scratches and dings, attesting to over fifty years of use, the wooden floors glowed from within, displaying the rich patina only age could bring. The sturdy cupboards, coated in layers of white paint, reflected the care and attention to detail so rarely found in house construction today; their scalloped edges so outdated, they would now be described as ‘retro’. ‘I love this kitchen,’ Tony thought as he pulled condiments out of the refrigerator, and set them on the counter, next to the bags from the grocery store and bakery.   
Over the past few months Tony had begun to covertly make small additions to it, adding a small espresso machine - which he now regretted, a retro styled stand mixer in bright red, matching red blinds for the window, a hanging pot rack constructed out of a garden trellis, which had been harder to just slip in, unnoticed, and various and sundry cooking tools that he had slowly brought over from his own apartment, where he spent very little time anymore. Gibbs hadn’t commented once, as new item after new item had mysteriously appeared, but he’d certainly learned to use them, in particular the espresso machine; although he claimed he only used it to make the wussy kind of coffee Tony liked, and Tony refrained from mentioning the fact that he always seemed to make himself a cup too. Reaching up, Tony pulled two plates down from the shelf in the overhead cupboard, and then placed a sliced bagel on each. On one bagel he spread a liberal amount of mayo and on the other he put mustard. Then reaching into a grocery bag, he pulled out a package of meat, sliced thin at the deli counter. The pastrami was added to the sandwiches, followed by cheese. Another reach into the bag produced a bag of prewashed carrots and celery, which was divided equally between the two plates. Sliced apples followed the veggies, and finally Tony deemed the meal complete. After returning the condiments and left over meat and cheese to the refrigerator, Tony grabbed the plates and two napkins and made for the basement door. He had almost reached it when he sighed and said, “Oh, what the hell,” and turned around. Putting the napkins and plates back on the counter, he opened the frig back up, and extracted two bottles of beer, lite of course, which he tucked under his arm. Then, picking the other things back up, he headed down.

Years of creeping up on criminals had conditioned Tony to move quietly, and Gibbs didn’t hear him as he made his way down the stairs. Once he reached the bottom, Tony took a moment just to stand and enjoy the sight of the man in front of him. It was a Sunday, and Gibbs was dressed in his favorite hanging around the house, doing nothing special outfit, old jeans washed to a bluish tinted grey and an equally faded Marine Corps t-shirt, decorated with small holes and wood stain. His usually silver colored hair was dusted a light golden brown with a layer of sawdust, and he wore an expression of deep concentration, as his eyes scanned the wood he was sanding for any signs of imperfection. Tony thought he looked perfect. 

Finally, as if sensing Tony’s presence, he looked up. Putting the sanding block down, he said with a small smile, “I didn’t think you’d ever get home, I was getting hungry.”

Laughing, Tony walked over to him and handed him a plate and napkin, accompanied by a bottle of beer. Gibbs studied the assortment of fruit and vegetables with distaste. Setting the beer and plate down on the work bench next to where he stood, Gibbs proceeded to ignore the offending produce, and picked up the sandwich and took a greedy bite. He looked at the sandwich as he chewed, frowning slightly. After swallowing his first bite, he took another, this time letting the food sit in his mouth, allowing his taste buds to fully experience the food. “There’s something wrong with this meat,” he said with a scowl, as he set the sandwich back on the plate.

Tony, who had been covertly watching him from the armchair he had settled down on after handing the plate to Gibbs, assured him, “No there isn’t. It tastes fine.” 

“No, it doesn’t. I’ve never eaten pastrami that tasted like this,” Gibbs insisted, as he lifted the top layer of bagel off of the sandwich to inspect it. “And the color is off, too,” he added, holding the plate out for Tony to inspect, ignoring the fact that Tony had an identical plate balanced on his lap, and that he had just prepared the sandwich in question.

“That’s the way it’s supposed to look,” Tony said patiently, “and this is the way it’s supposed to taste.”

“I’ve never had a pastrami sandwich from Maurice’s Deli that tastes like this,” Gibbs decreed.

“No, probably not,” Tony readily agreed, giving Gibbs an innocent smile.

It was the smile that clued Gibbs in. “Just what kind of meat is this, DiNozzo?” he asked, suspiciously.

“Pastrami,” Tony answered, and when Gibbs’ blue eyes bore into him like a laser, one eyebrow raising sharply, he added, “Turkey pastrami.”

“Oh, for the love of God!” Gibbs exclaimed, as he set the plate back down again, and grabbed the beer, looked at the bottle, sighed, and then twisted off the cap. “Lite beer, rabbit food, and pretend meat.” 

“Gibbs, you heard what….” Tony started, only to have Gibbs interrupt him.

“I’m not going to drop over dead from a heart attack any time soon, but you may irritate me into a stroke,” Gibbs said through gritted teeth.

“When you get to be your age, you can’t be too careful,” Tony said with a smirk.

Gibbs put a hand on either arm of the chair Tony was sitting in, and leaned into Tony, “Are you calling me old, Tony?” he asked menacingly.

“Not old, Boss,” Tony said. “More like ripe,” he added in a teasing voice. Then he reached his face up, and ran his tongue over the top of Gibbs’ mouth. “Mustard,” he said, by way of explaining his action, as he then ran his tongue over his own lips.

Gibbs just stared at him for a second, and then began to laugh. Leaning closer to Tony, he pressed his lips to Tony’s mouth, and kissed him, long and hard.  
When they broke the kiss off in order to breathe, Gibbs said, “Let’s put the plates in the frig and go upstairs. You’re going to need to help me work up a bigger appetite if I’m going to eat this food.”

“That’s a good idea,” Tony said saucily, “The doctor said that exercise is good for you too.”


	2. On Second Glance

The Home Is…..Series   
“On Second Glance” 

“One of the oldest human needs is having someone wonder where you are when you don't come home at night.” Margaret Mead

“Hey Abby, its Gibbs” he said into the phone. “Don’t get excited, nothing’s wrong. Just give me a call when you get this message,” and then he pressed the button, ending the call. Looking at his watch, and seeing that it was 12:15 a.m., he wondered if it was too late to call McGee, knowing his youngest agent wasn’t a night owl, like Abby. Deciding that he shouldn’t because of the time, and more importantly, his unwillingness to offer the kind of explanation his question might demand, he pushed himself off the beige overstuffed sofa he had been slumped in, and stood, looking around his den for something to do. An enormous flat screen television had been squeezed between the oak bookshelves on the opposite wall, but it held no appeal. Gibbs had never understood how some people could watch the stupid thing, hour after hour. There was a state of the art stereo system on two shelves of one of the bookcases next to the TV, but he didn’t even know how to turn it on. Next to the beautiful, walnut library desk he had inherited from his grandfather, incongruously stood the newest addition to the room, a treadmill, positioned so that you could watch the boob tube while exercising. Placing it in the den had been a compromise when Tony had wanted to install it in the basement and Gibbs had suggested the garage. The treadmill held no appeal though; even the chance to burn off some of the nervous energy he was feeling didn’t make it attractive. He had just decided to go make another pot of coffee, when his cell rang.

Looking at the number displayed on the screen with disappointment, he answered, “Gibbs.”

Music blared forth so loudly he could almost feel the reverberations of the bass guitar in his own stomach. The noise forced him to move the phone away from his ear a bit. “Gibbs? Gibbs? Gibbs, it’s me,” Abby screamed into the phone, in an attempt to make herself heard. “What’s up, Bossman?”

“Can’t hear you, Abs,” he yelled back, involuntarily matching her volume.

“Hang on a sec,” Abs shouted, “I’ll get somewhere quieter. Don’t go anywhere!”

Gibbs could hear rustling and the babble of hundreds of voices, as the sheer intensity of the music began to wane. Occasionally he could indistinctly pick out Abby’s voice, as she clearly responded to something someone around her had said. Finally the music and murmur of voices faded, and Abby’s voice rang out, “Gibbs, are you there?” She was still talking loudly, but that wasn’t unusual for Abby, no matter where she was.

“Yep, still am,” Gibbs answered.

“I totally freaked out when I saw that you’d called. What’s wrong?” she demanded. “And don’t try to tell me everything’s fine. There’s no way you’d be calling me at this hour if it was.”

“I was just calling to ask if Tony was with you.” Gibbs said, trying to sound nonchalant. He hated to have to admit his reason, but the need to know overshadowed his embarrassment. 

“Why would he be with me?” Abby asked, suspicion creeping into her voice, replacing the fear.

“I don’t know, never mind. Forget I called and go on back to whatever it is you were doing,” Gibbs said, hoping to avoid having to explain anything more.

“I don’t think so,” Abby said sharply. “What’s going on? Why don’t you know where Tony is?” she paused, clearly thinking. Then, “Did you have a fight?” she demanded.

Gibbs sighed. He should have known better than to call her. It was just that Abby was one of the few people who knew about him and Tony, and he’d thought that maybe Tony would have gone to see her. 

When he didn’t answer her quickly enough to suit, Abby asked again, “Did you hear me? Did you guys get into an argument?”

“It wasn’t really an argument,” Gibbs said defensively.

“Yeah, that’s why you don’t know where Tony is,” Abby snapped. “What did you say to him, Bossman?” she demanded to know.

“That’s none of your business,” Gibbs snapped back, there was only so much he was willing to share, and he was angry that she assumed he had caused the fight, and more than a little guilty. “I just want to make sure he’s okay. Look, it’ll be fine. We’ll get it worked out. Go on back to your dance, or whatever that noise was.”

“You’d better,” Abby warned. “I wouldn’t let it drag on if I were you. Time doesn’t heal all wounds for Tony.”

“Yeah Abs; believe me, I know.” Gibbs sighed. “That’s why I was trying to find him tonight. You don’t think he’d go over to McGee’s, do you?”

“And admit to the Probie that his life wasn’t perfect? Not a chance,” Abby snorted. “You didn’t call Timmy, did you?” she asked in a horrified voice.

“No!” Gibbs exclaimed, not about to admit that he had thought about it.

“You may just have to wait until he’s ready to talk,” Abby said. “If he calls me, I’ll try to get him to let you know where he is,” she promised. “That’s about the best I can do.”

“Appreciate it,” Gibbs said. “Have a good night, Abby. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Hang in there, Bossman. It’ll all work out,” Abby said, as she hung up.

Gibbs snapped his phone shut, as his worry ramped up another ten degrees. Instinctually he turned, and headed to the basement, the place he always went to when seeking solace. He had gotten all the way over to his boat when the guilt crashed down on him, causing him to still. This is where it had happened, he thought, suddenly feeling like a criminal returning to the scene of a crime, as he remembered what had happened.

He had known for a couple of days that something was on Tony’s mind. He had been tenser and more fidgety than normal. There had been a couple of false starts, where Tony seemed to be getting ready to talk about what was eating at him, but each time Gibbs thought they were finally going to get to it, Tony had ended up cracking some lame joke and prattling on about nothing of importance. Gibbs hadn’t pushed, knowing that never worked with Tony, figuring that eventually Tony would just spit it out. When Tony had come down to the basement this evening, and sat in his usual spot, magazine on his lap, Gibbs hadn’t given it much thought. They had spent countless nights that way. He, working on his boat, while Tony read, occasionally teasing and making small talk, until they were both ready to go up for the night. Gibbs had just assumed it was going to be another normal night.

‘God, he was stupid,’ he berated himself, as he played back the scene in the basement in his mind. He’d been absorbed in the boat; not really focusing on Tony, or he would have seen the signs, he assured himself. He hadn’t looked up when Tony spoke, so there hadn’t been a visual cue, and Tony’s voice had been light and conversational.

“Did I tell you my lease expires at the end of this month?” Tony had asked him offhandedly.

“Uh huh,” he answered, more interested in the knot in the wood he was trying to plane out.

“Not sure I should renew it.” Tony had remarked, and still he hadn’t caught on to the fact that this was it, the thing Tony had been skating around.

“That dump’s a fire hazard,” he’d offered, just to show he was hearing Tony, even though he obviously hadn’t really been listening.

“Thought maybe I could just officially move in here,” Tony had said, just as casually as if he had been commenting on the weather.

And still he hadn’t really gotten it. Instead, he’d cracked a joke. “Don’t think you’re going to be number five. You don’t have the legs for it,” he’d said, meaning only to imply that everyone else who’d ever lived there with him had been a wife. He wasn’t against the idea; he just hadn’t ever really given it any thought, content with the way things were. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time Tony had spent the night at his own apartment. It had been months. 

It had taken him a few moments to realize that Tony hadn’t replied. By the time he looked up, Tony was already half way up the stairs, and still it didn’t really register. It wasn’t until he heard the front door slam, that he had replayed the conversation in his head, realizing how that comment might have been interpreted by Tony. He’d gotten to the front door just in time to watch Tony’s car pull out of the driveway and swing out onto the road, tires squealing. He’d immediately tried calling him and had gotten no answer. Since then he’d tried over a dozen more times, only to receive the same results. And so here he was now, six hours later, having no clue where Tony was, or what was going on in his brain. Gibbs glanced at his boat again, no longer wanting anything to do with the basement, and headed back up the stairs. When he got to the main level, he turned on the lights to the back yard and the front porch. He even switched on the little lamp on the table next to the door. Then, with no better plan of action, he returned to the den and sank back down onto the couch, ready to resume his lonely vigil.

Gibbs’ words had hit Tony so hard, he’d actually stopped breathing for a moment. He was out the door and in his car before he even really thought about what he was doing. When his phone started ringing, he’d reached down and turned it off, not caring that he was breaking Gibbs’ precious rule number three – never be unreachable. After all, that would just be one more strike against him, he thought bitterly. He had driven around aimlessly for over two hours, no real destination in mind, just needing to put distance between himself and the source of his misery. At one point he had considered calling Abby, but had discarded that idea quickly. Abby had a way of getting to the heart of every problem, making him look at the issues fairly and logically, and that wasn’t something he wanted to do right now. Gibbs’ words had hurt him, and he wasn’t ready to let that pain go yet. 

Finally, not knowing what else to do, he’d driven over to his own apartment. After letting himself in, he looked around, as if seeing the place for the first time. It had been awhile since he’d been there, and a thin layer of dust covered every surface, since he had long ago discontinued his account with the cleaning service, seeing no reason to spend money on a place he didn’t occupy. The air was still, and was beginning to get that musty scent he associated with elderly people’s homes, the smell that hinted at illness and suggested it had been years since a window had been opened, allowing fresh air in. Suddenly feeling claustrophobic and dizzy, he went over to the windows in the living room, and opened them both up as wide as they would go, then he stood and just breathed in the fresh night air, letting it start to clear his head. Turning around, he automatically went to turn on the TV, surprised for a brief moment when he discovered it missing. ‘No, of course it wasn’t there,’ he reminded himself. He’d transferred it to Gibbs’ house several months ago, unwilling to watch the football season on Gibbs’ tiny portable television. He thought about taking a shower, but remembered he didn’t have any soap or shampoo here anymore, and the clothes that remained were ones he had intended to gather up and give to the Salvation Army, deeming them too outdated to be worn again. He crossed to the frig to get a beer, but the smell that attacked him when he opened the refrigerator’s door caused him to slam it shut again, and backpedal out of the kitchen. With no better options, he walked slowly back into the main room, and dropped down onto the sofa, little puffs of dust floating up, and then resettling on his shoulders and head.

 

As he sat, limp and defeated, on the sofa, the scene in the basement came back to him, like a flashback in a movie. Gibbs’ words, “Don’t think you’re going to be number five,” echoed over and over again, pushing away all other thoughts. He didn’t know how he had expected Gibbs to react to his suggestion, but that wasn’t it. Not that he’d ever expected to be number five, neither he nor Gibbs were the type to militantly defy tradition, their jobs and their upbringings making the idea more than improbable. Sitting on the couch, he asked himself, ‘Just what did you expect?’ and found he couldn’t answer that question. He didn’t really have any experience with long term relationships, and therefore had nothing to compare to these circumstances. When he and Gibbs had first gotten together, he hadn’t let himself think about where it might lead, happy to just revel in the now, not wanting to jinx it by thinking too hard about it. Over time, it had just become a part of who he was and what he did, and didn’t seem to require any deeper examination. Now, here he was, a little over a year since it had all begun, not knowing where he stood.

 

Events from the last several months replayed in his head as he sat on couch in his empty apartment. Memories of he and Gibbs cooking and doing lawn work came back to him. He recalled silly disagreements over the type of laundry detergent to buy, or the type of toothpaste that was best. Nights spent watching Gibbs work on the boat washed over him, forming a tapestry of images in his mind. None of it was earth shattering, but pieced together, it formed his definition of happiness. Suddenly not willing to let it all slip away, he jumped up from the sofa, and headed out the door. When he got into his car, he glanced at his discarded cell phone, sitting on the seat next to him. Turning it back on, he saw that he had fifteen missed calls. Punching the button, he saw they were all from Gibbs. ‘Fifteen missed calls, and not a single message!’ he thought, his first smile for several hours forming on his lips. That was so typical. Turning the ignition key, he started the car, heading back to what he realized had already become home.

 

When Tony pulled the car into Gibbs' drive, he was surprised to find the house a blaze of lights. The porch light was on, and light from the living room shone out of the windows at him, like the beacon of a lighthouse. Slipping quietly in, he walked to the basement door, surprised to find the basement still and dark. Heading back through the main floor of the house, he went to the den, pausing to look at what he found there. Gibbs sat on the couch, his head slumped to the right a bit, sound asleep. Tony didn’t need to be told that the older man had fallen asleep sitting up waiting for him to come home; he just knew it. Gliding silently into the room, he straddled Gibbs’ lap, and sat down. 

 

Gibbs stirred, the pressure waking him up. When he saw who it was, his arms encircled Tony, pulling him to his chest. Holding him tight, he murmured, “Welcome home,” and that was all Tony needed to hear, everything else was unimportant.


	3. Third Time Lucky

“Third Time Lucky”

 

“A house that does not have one worn, comfy chair in it is soulless.” May Sarton

 

 

“No way! We’re not getting one of those. We live in a house, not a dorm room,” Gibbs decreed adamantly.

Tony was lying boneless on an enormous beanbag chair in the furniture aisle at Target, looking up at Gibbs, giving him his best impression of a puppy dog, eyes wide and imploring. ‘All that was missing was the wagging tail,’ Gibbs thought, fighting back a smile. He couldn’t afford to let Tony know he was amused, or he would use it to his own advantage.

“It’s red and gold for the Redskins. We need to have it,” Tony said persuasively.

“Those are the colors for the Corps, too, and still I don’t feel that need,” Gibbs rebutted.

“But I need a comfortable chair in the basement,” Tony pleaded. “My butt gets sore sitting in that old wooden thing, hour after hour.”

“No one said you had to sit down there ‘hour after hour’” Gibbs said, imitating Tony’s martyred tone of voice. “There are plenty of comfortable places to sit in the den, or living room,” he reminded Tony.

“They’re not comfortable when I’m sitting up there alone,” Tony replied, “and you do spend a lot of time down with the boat, Boss,” he said with an easy smile and gentle tone, not wanting Gibbs to think he resented it. In actuality, Tony loved to spend time down in the basement with Gibbs, removed from the rest of the world, content to watch him work. 

“I’ll get you a pillow, Tony. I don’t want your ass to get bruised,” he said. “At least, not that way,” he smirked, and laughed outright when Tony gave a muffled squeak. ‘Score one for the old guy,’ he congratulated himself. “I thought you said this was going to be a quick stop, just long enough for you to pick up some DVD that just got released? You didn’t mention anything about looking for things to redecorate.”

“One chair, added to a room that doesn’t have a decent place to sit, hardly qualifies as redecorating,” Tony countered, but even as he spoke, he was standing up, knowing this battle had been lost, but privately vowing to ultimately win the war, as he headed off for the video section, Gibbs trailing along after him.

On the following Saturday, they had a repeat performance of the previous shopping excursion, this time in a Pier 1. Gibbs still couldn’t believe he was even in this store, he hated shopping in general, and stores like this made him uncomfortable; but when Tony had said he was going out because he needed to pick up a couple of things for the house, Gibbs had flashed back on the beanbag chair. He had come along as a form of self protection, worried that something even more offensive than a vinyl covered bag of plastic pellets might find its way into the house. Instead of sitting on a beanbag chair, Tony was now lounging in an enormous papasan chair, its light green cushion resting on a pale rattan frame, wiggling his eyebrows and suggestively discussing how there was room for two. 

“There might be room, but that cheap frame isn’t going to hold both our weight. Or were you planning on sitting in it with someone else?” Gibbs inquired.

“Well, I’m sure Abby wouldn’t mind snuggling,” Tony said airily.

“And where are you planning on putting McGee?” Gibbs smirked, referring to the highly improbable, on again, off again relationship between his preppy, uptight agent, and the goth forensic specialist. 

“Two’s company,” Tony said. “Three’s just excessive. Probielicious will just have to stay home and work on his novel.” 

Gibbs rolled his eyes, not at all threatened. “Tony, there isn’t enough room in the basement for this chair,” Gibbs said, trying to be reasonable. He couldn’t tell how serious Tony was about getting a chair for the basement, or how much this had just become a game for him, since neither of the chairs he had suggested made any sense for the space.

“Fine,” Tony said. “But I hope you still like my butt when I have calluses on it.”

“I’d like it even better if it was out of that chair and headed for that door,” he said, pointing to the entrance to the store. Then he reached out a hand, and pulled Tony out of the papasan. Again, Tony let the subject drop, but Gibbs was sure they weren’t through with it yet. But when the rest of the day passed pleasantly, without Tony bringing it up again, he began to think he had been overly suspicious.

The following week, Gibbs was to be gone from Wednesday through Saturday, attending a seminar on leadership, which he had tried, unsuccessfully, to talk Vance out of forcing him to attend. When he told Tony about it, Tony said all the appropriate words about how he would miss him, but he didn’t really seem all that bothered, and Gibbs could swear he saw wheels turning in Tony’s brain. Tuesday night, as he packed his bag, Tony seemed too eager to help, reaffirming for Gibbs that there was something hinky going on. Remembering the last couple of weekends, Gibbs said, “Promise me you won’t go out and buy some chair for the basement while I’m gone. If you really want one, we’ll find one that’ll fit when I get back,” surprised when Tony readily agreed.

The seminar couldn’t have come at a better time for Tony. Gibbs’ birthday was the next week, and Tony had spent the last month trying to figure out something special to do for him. When Gibbs told him he would be gone for three and a half days, Tony had an idea. After Tony had started spending enough time at Gibbs’ to go snooping, he had been shocked the first time he had looked into the garage. Before he moved in, Gibbs’ house had been the embodiment of military precision. There was nothing extraneous in it, everything in it had a function and a place, and a cleaning lady came once a week to ensure that no dust or cobwebs accumulated where they didn’t belong. The bedcovers were always pulled so tightly Tony had been positive that you really could bounce a coin off of them, and nothing littered the counters in the bathroom or the kitchen. The basement had been the only exception, and Tony didn’t really consider it a part of the house proper, instead seeing it as kind of magical realm that one just happened to be able to access through a door in the kitchen. The garage, on the other hand, had been the polar opposite. It was just four walls, jammed full with boxes, discarded lawn furniture and equipment, and piles of things covered in tarps that Tony had been almost afraid to explore. You couldn’t really walk in there, and Tony had instantly understood why Gibbs always parked his car in the drive. When he’d asked Gibbs about it, he’d looked slightly embarrassed and said he had just let it get out of hand over the years, and that now it was going to take more time than he had to put it to rights. That was going to be Tony’s gift for Gibbs. He was going to clean out the garage for him.

Work on Wednesday seemed to drag by at a crawl. Vance had assigned them to cold cases for the duration of Gibbs’ absence, and the boredom, combined with his impatience to start on his project, made Tony testy. When five o’clock rolled around, it was a toss-up as to who was in a bigger hurry to leave, he or McGee. Tony stopped at one of the chain home improvement stores on his way home and purchased two sets of build-it-yourself shelving units with doors, plastic storage tubs in a variety of sizes, and four boxes of trash bags. When he got everything out to the car, he had barely been able to shove it all in, and as it was, he had needed to tie the lid to the trunk down, since it was so packed that it would not close all the way. When he got home, he made a peanut butter sandwich, too excited to get started to waste much time on eating.

By midnight, Tony had cleared a path through the center of the garage. He had eight bags of garbage, mostly consisting of boxes he had broken down, ceramic pots which had been broken by the weight of the things piled on top of them, and clothing he had found packed in some of the aforementioned boxes – astoundingly outdated and now filled with moth holes. He had organized miscellaneous Christmas and other holiday decorations, which had clearly not been touched in over a decade, into plastic tubs, carefully labeling them. Gardening tools and paint supplies had been likewise sorted, crated and labeled. He still had the outside perimeter of the garage to go, but he had made enough room to carry in the boxes of shelves that were still out in the car. Gibbs had called around ten, complaining about the stupidity of the seminar he had attended that afternoon, and unwilling to waste any time, Tony had continued to clean while talking to him. When he had to ask Tony the same question twice, Gibbs had asked him what he was doing, and Tony had said he was watching a movie, hoping that would explain why he seemed a bit distracted. Gibbs had accepted the explanation, and rang off, promising to call the next day. By the time he fell into bed at 12:15, he was exhausted, but pleased with his progress.

Tony was back in the garage by 5:30 p.m. on Thursday. The night started as a continuation of the previous evening. Tony had begun to view the whole process as a scavenger hunt, the end goal being a more complete understanding of Gibbs’ past. That night he found boxes of sporting equipment, including a golf set, which undoubtedly held the seven iron wife number two had attacked him with. Another couple of boxes contained camping equipment, including a pup tent and two hiking backpacks. When Tony got to the box containing an ancient VCR player and tapes, many of which were children’s movies, he had known immediately how long that box had been out there. Tony had gotten up from where he had been crouching, suddenly needing to take a break. He thought he had prepared himself for the likelihood of finding some evidence of Shannon and Kelly, but the reality was harder to deal with. He wasn’t jealous of them; both he and Gibbs had pasts. It was the empathic pain he felt for the sorrow their memory caused Gibbs that made him back away. It wasn’t as if he and Gibbs sat around discussing their feelings, far from it, but on the rare occasions when Gibbs’ late family were mentioned, he had been able to sense Gibbs slamming down his emotions, needing to create a barrier between himself and their ghosts. As Tony went into the kitchen to get a soda, he wondered if he had just discovered the reason Gibbs had let the garage get so out of control. Would he find other boxes containing items Gibbs had not been able to discard, but could not bear to look at? As he drank his coke an even bigger question occurred to him. What was he going to do with them, if they existed? Tony knew he had to get through everything that night. The next morning was garbage pick-up day, and he wanted all the trash bagged and gone, so it wouldn’t be the first thing Gibb saw when he returned Saturday night. Steeling himself, he went back to the garage.

By the time he was done sorting through all the clutter, he had found four more boxes that contained items that had once belonged to Shannon or Kelly. There were two boxes with books in them, one a collection of various children’s stories and the other a mix of fantasy and romance novels. The other two were a hodgepodge of items, stuffed animals, jewelry, toys, clothing, and a collection of letters, all sent from overseas to either Shannon or Kelly, and bound together with a faded yellow ribbon. Tony didn’t read them, it wasn’t his place, but he knew they were from Gibbs, collected and preserved with love, by Shannon. He placed these items to the side, along with the VCR player and tapes, deciding to deal with them the next day, and continued sorting through the more mundane items in the garage.   
At the end of the night, he had over twenty bags of garbage, which he hauled out, two at a time, to the curb. In the garage, plastic boxes, neatly labeled, were stacked bottom upon lid, in four neat piles; larger gardening tools, such as hoes and shovels had been organized against one wall, next to a collection of snow shovels and ladders. The boxes with the shelving units in them lay on the ground, just waiting to be constructed. In the middle of the garage sat the item Tony was most excited about discovering, an old brown upholstered rocking chair, which he had found shoved in the far back corner, covered by a tarp. It wasn’t beautiful - the fabric frayed along the edges in places, and the seat cushion sagged a bit from use – but it was comfortable and a good size. When Tony had sat in it the first time, he’d felt a little like Goldilocks, when she discovered Baby Bear’s chair. Although he had refrained from announcing it ‘Just right!’ he had immediately thought about how well it would work in the basement. Deciding to wait until tomorrow to build the shelves, he grabbed the chair and began to lug it into the house.

It was a good thing that Tony was a large man, and strong. The chair, while not really oversized, was heavy, suggesting a solid wood frame, and the runners at the bottom made it difficult to maneuver. It took quite a bit off manipulation to wrestle it down the stairs, but once he got in into the basement, he was inordinately pleased. It seemed to fit right in, looking as if it had always been there. The old fashioned shape worked perfectly in a space where power equipment had been shunned, in favor of a variety of new and ancient hand tools. The brown of the upholstery fit in well with the wood and muted colors of the space, not upstaging the central focus of the room - the wooden frame of Gibbs’ boat. Its size enabled Tony to snuggle it into the corner, between the workbench and the stairs, out of the way, but positioned so that an occupant would have a view of the entire basement. Worn out from the day’s activities, he sank into the chair, content to just rock while gazing at the boat, amazed at how well the chair seemed to fit his body. He hadn’t been there long, before he drifted off to sleep, the old soft fabric of the chair cocooning him in its warmth. When he woke up, he was momentarily disoriented. A quick look around helped him get his bearings, and a glance at his watch told him it was 6:00 a.m. He stretched as he stood, surprised to discover he wasn’t stiff after a night spent in a chair, and went upstairs to get ready for work. 

Again the work day seemed as though it would never end. Gibbs was apparently equally as bored at his seminar, because he called repeatedly, under the pretense of wanting updates on what Tony and McGee were accomplishing, but not really seeming all that interested in the results of their reviews of the old cases. He sniped about the speakers and the hotel, and seemed most offended over the lack of decent coffee. By his last call he had started in on a game whereby he asked Tony all sorts of intimate and suggestive questions that he knew Tony couldn’t really answer while in the bullpen, forcing Tony to answer with oblique phrases and one word comments, which only added to the frustration of the day for Tony. Tony was glad when the day ended, and he could finally leave. 

It took Tony several hours to construct the cabinets, despite the detailed instructions he found in the boxes. He wasn’t used to doing this sort of work, and he was glad for the various tools he had found in the garage while cleaning. By 9:00, they were built, and Tony wrestled them against the far wall, lining them up in a neat row. He then began to organize the tubs he had prepared over the last two days, stacking them on the shelves of the cabinets in a logical order - boxes of gardening tools sitting next to boxes of pots and coiled hoses, tools next to a collection of screws, nails and other hardware, spray paints, organized by type and color placed next to a tub of brushes - the neatly printed labels for each tub facing out and clearly visible. Finally, all that was left were the boxes which contained Shannon’s and Kelly’s possessions. It didn’t feel right to Tony to have them placed alongside the other, more mundane items, but he still wasn’t sure what to do with them. Since he was starving, he decided to go in and order a pizza, while he tried to come up with a solution, knowing he had till tomorrow evening to solve the problem.

The next morning, Tony was at the do-it-yourself center by 8:00 a.m. Having drawn a blank as to what to do with the items, he hoped the store would provide him with inspiration. He knew he wanted something that would keep them safe, but which had a door so that Gibbs didn’t have to look at them, except when he chose to do so. Finally Tony found the right thing, a small red fireproof cabinet, just the right size for the plastic boxes Tony had transferred the items into. The cabinet was incredibly expensive, well over two thousand dollars, but Tony knew it was the perfect solution, and not something Gibbs would probably spend money on, if left to his own devises. A salesman helped Tony get it to the car, and tipped sideways into the trunk. As Tony once again tied down the lid, he was glad for the dolly he had unearthed on Thursday; he’d need it to get the cabinet into the garage.

By 4:00 p.m. the garage was done and Tony had a pan of lasagna in the oven, planning to surprise Gibbs with a home cooked meal when he returned. Knowing that Gibbs wasn’t due back for another hour, he wandered down to the basement, and curled up in the rocker, pleased with himself, and wanting to bask in the glow of a job well done. As it had the night before, the gentle rocking motion, aided by Tony’s own exhaustion, eased him into sleep.

When Gibbs walked through the front door at 5:15, the first thing he noticed was the smell of tomato sauce and rich cheese that had wafted through the house. He smiled, knowing it meant that Tony had cooked dinner. Setting his bag down by the door, he headed for the kitchen, expecting to find Tony there. There was no sign of him, but Gibbs was startled to see the door which led to the garage ajar. Walking over to it, intending to shut it, he stopped, his arm mid reach, when he looked at the interior of the garage. Where once there had been a jumbled mess, he now saw the concrete floor. Stepping down into the space, he looked around, stunned by what he saw. Two enormous storage cabinets sat on the back wall, facing the sliding garage door. Walking over to them, he opened the doors. Neatly sorted and labeled, were clear plastic storage containers of various sizes, holding what had once been strewn around the space. Shutting the doors, he looked further. Hooks had been installed in the walls, and ladders, shovels and other tools hung in a neat row, elevated and safe from the potential of water damage. On the wall next to the door leading into the house, sat a red metal cabinet. When Gibbs opened the door to it, he made a small choking sound. The shelves were once again filled with plastic tubs. The first box was labeled ‘Precious Memories – children’s books’. Next to it sat another, its label identifying it as ‘Precious Memories – toys and stuffed animals;’ and so it went, each tub lovingly labeled with ‘Precious Memories,’ followed by a description of the contents. Gibbs just stood and looked, unable to move, his breath catching in his throat and his eyes filling with unshed tears. Finally, pulling out the smallest box, labeled ‘Precious Memories – letters to home’, he opened the lid, and drew forth the bundle of letters he found enclosed. Pressing the bundle to his lips, he placed a small kiss on the top letter, and then replaced it in the box, which he slid back into its spot in the cabinet. Letting the cabinets door slide shut, he walked back into the kitchen and looked around. There was light spilling from the edges of the door leading to the basement, and Gibbs suddenly knew where to find Tony.

When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he once again froze. There sat Tony, little smudges of dirt on his face, curled up sound asleep, in a chair Gibbs hadn’t seen for close to twenty years. Memories washed over him. Images of him and Shannon, picking out the chair, Shannon’s belly swollen with their child. Pictures of Shannon rocking Kelly in their bedroom, as she breast fed her in the still of the night. The memory of the night he had spent sitting in the chair, holding Shannon on his lap as she cried, consumed by grief over the loss of her best friend who had been killed in a car accident, quickly replaced by another more pleasant memory of him, once again holding Shannon, as they gently kissed, having just returned from dinner, having celebrated their eighth wedding anniversary. Looking at Tony, he suddenly realized that it seemed so right, that he should be the one to uncover the chair and find a second life for it. Kneeling in front of the chair, he reached out and softly ran his hand across Tony’s face, wiping away the dirt that dotted his nose and cheeks.

Tony’s eyes opened at Gibbs’ touch, and his face lit with the luminescence of his smile. 

“Thank you,” Gibbs said hoarsely.

“You saw the garage already?” Tony asked, disappointment lacing the question. “I wanted to be the one to show it to you.”

“I was actually glad to find it by myself,” Gibbs said, having difficulty speaking. “Thank you for the Precious Memories,” he said, as he drew Tony close, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss. As the front of the chair pressed into his thighs, it occurred to him that together, he and Tony would make new memories for the chair, memories which would not replace the old ones, but which would take up residence side by side with the past, forging a link between the two, and testifying to the bonds of love.


	4. Behind Our Four Walls

Behind Our Four Walls

 

"Home is any four walls that enclose the right person." Helen Rowland

 

Gibbs lay in bed, not paying that much attention to Tony, as he tossed and turned, just glad to be home with someone he loved lying next to him. It had been one of those days when he questioned why he was still on the job. They had gotten the call late in the morning. Shots were being fired in the officer's housing complex at Bethesda. When they got there, they saw a crowd of people out on the sidewalk, in front of one of the duplexes, all staring with mouths gaping and bodies tense. Screams and shouts could be heard coming from within. 

Upon seeing them, their reason for being there emblazoned in big white letters that spelled out NCIS on their jackets, a young blonde haired woman had rushed towards them, clutching a cell phone, tears streaming down her face. "They've been fighting for over an hour, but I heard gunshots about twenty-five minutes ago. I live next door. That's why I called you. Their children are inside there with them," she'd cried, one step short of full hysteria.

"Who lives here ma'am?" Gibbs had asked, deliberately making his voice as soothing as possible. "Can you tell me what the fight seems to be about?"

"John and Amy - the Larsons, and their two kids, Stacy and Josh," she'd choked out, around the sobs. "I don't know what the fight today is about, but they've been having problems for awhile. I know she'd asked him for a divorce a few days ago. Amy told me she'd fallen out of love with John. That he was getting old and bald, and just didn't do it for her anymore," she shook her head in disbelief, whether it was over what Mrs. Larson had said and done, or the situation, Gibbs didn't know. "You've got to get those kids out," she implored. 

"Try to calm down. We're sure going to try," he'd said. "Can you tell who was shooting?" he asked.

"John. It was John. Before I came outside I heard him scream that he was going to make it so she could never leave him. I heard her scream at him to put the gun away, and that was when I got really scared and came outside."

He had then turned to Tony, who was standing beside him. "Go get the bullhorn," he told his senior agent. 

"Already sent McGee for it, Boss. He should be back any second. What's the plan?" Tony had asked. His shoulders were tense and his eyes alert. They all hated domestic calls; there never seemed to be a satisfying conclusion to any of them.

"I'm going to try and talk to him first. I don't want shots fired randomly when there are kids in there," Gibbs had answered. McGee had arrived back while they were talking, and Gibbs had reached out for the bullhorn. After that, time seemed to alter, sometimes dragging by in slow motion, and at others, moving so fast events blurred, making it hard to take in the details.

He'd called out to John Larson, and had established communication. Eventually he had been able to get Larson to use the phone to talk to him, making him glad the conversation was no longer audible to everyone standing outside the home. Two hours later, Larson had unexpectedly agreed to let Gibbs and his team into the house. If he had really thought about it, he would have realized that something was off, but he had been focused on his desire to get the wife and children out safely. By this time, there were more than a dozen NCIS agents at the house. Gibbs had silently signaled that they should surround all entrances, and then he, Tony and McGee had approached the house. Larson, wild eyed and unkempt, met them at the front door, his arm around a woman, who Gibbs assumed was Amy Larson, a gun pressed against her head. Larson had stood back to let them in, and then used his foot to slam the door behind them. Larson had told them he wanted witnesses to hear the lies his wife was saying about him, and ordered Amy Larson to tell them what she had said, but the poor woman, who was sobbing uncontrollably, couldn't speak. Things went downhill from there rather rapidly. Larson had screamed at his wife again, and then, before the team knew what was happening, Larson had shot his wife in the head, and turned the gun on himself. The gunshots had caused the other agents to charge the doors, and soon the house was crawling with NCIS personnel. John and Amy were declared dead on the scene, but the worst part of the day had been the discovery of the two children in the bathroom, both dead from single gun shots to the head.

When the team had gotten back to headquarters later in the afternoon, Tony and Gibbs had to shower and change, both of them having been sprayed by blood when Larson had pulled the trigger on his wife, their bodies having served as human shields for McGee. The rest of the day had been spent in silence, as the team prepared their reports. There wasn't much left to say, after all, and none of them felt like talking. By five, Gibbs had reviewed the reports, and announced they were done for the day, unable to hide the relief that slipped into his voice. Once released, McGee had rushed to the stairs, probably on his way down to see Abby, Gibbs had thought, glad Tim had someone to seek solace in. He and Tony had gathered up their belongings and headed to the elevator, both eager to leave the day behind.

Once they got into the elevator, Tony's whole demeanor had changed. Instead of the grim faced, silent agent he had looked at all afternoon, before him stood an animated Tony, an overly wide smile plastered on his face, babbling away about how hungry he was, and where they should go for dinner. Tony talked all the way out to the car, and all the way to the restaurant, his words accompanied by grand gestures and the constant bouncing of his right leg. Gibbs knew that this manic, forced jocularity was just another one of Tony's coping mechanisms, and since he could barely wait to get home to his boat so that he could sand away the memories of the day, and then bury himself in the warmth and comfort of Tony's body, he didn't feel he could call the younger man on his chosen method for dealing with today's events. Besides, he knew that his participation in the conversation wasn't needed or expected. Tony would jump from one monologue to another, until he wore himself out.

They both ate a dinner neither one really tasted, and then headed home. Gibbs sighed in relief as he walked through the front door. It was good to be home. He headed straight for the basement, Tony on his heels. Once down there, he had pulled out his bottle of bourbon, and the two glasses he now kept in the drawer. He poured them each a healthy portion, which they both tipped back and swallowed in one shot. After refilling the glasses, and stashing the bottle on the counter, he picked up his sanding block, needing to start the healing process. Tony had settled himself in his chair and was rocking violently, as he regaled Gibbs with a recount of his cousin Petey's seventh birthday party. ‘He must be pretty desperate for topics if he's resorted to his family,' Gibbs thought, but said nothing, as he pressed the sanding block to the side of his boat, eager to get caught up by the rhythm of the repetitive motions which never failed to soothe him. 

Gibbs wasn't sure how much time had passed when his arms finally gave out on him. As he lifted the sanding block from the wood, he became aware of the fact that the basement was now silent. Looking over at the chair, he had seen Tony, his head slumped against the back of the chair, sound asleep. Feeling calmer than he had in hours, he walked over to Tony, and gently shook his shoulder. "Hey Tony, wake up. Let's go up to bed. You'll be so stiff you can't walk in the morning if you stay down here."

"I'm awake, was just meditating," Tony had slurred, as he opened his eyes and stretched. Gibbs watched him, enjoying the play of muscle as Tony's arms reached up, and his back arched. When Tony stood, Gibbs impulsively reached over and pulled him close, kissing him gently. Tony pulled his head back far enough to see Gibbs' face, and asked, "What was that for?"

"For being you," Gibbs said, and kissed the tip of Tony's nose, then spun him around and pushed him gently towards the stairs.

By the time they were in bed, Tony was fully awake again. Gibbs had stretched out on his back, his arms folded under his head, thinking, as Tony turned and squirmed, trying to find a position that suited him. Finally, laying half on top of Gibbs, he stilled. 

"Today was pretty pathetic," Tony said.

Gibbs had been waiting all night for Tony to worm his way around to the topic that was really on his mind. "Yeah, it was," he said, not so much as to agree, but to let Tony know that he was paying attention.

"God, those kids," he'd breathed. "I don't understand how you could kill your own kids. And the wife, that was so screwed up," Tony paused as he slid his arm further around Gibbs' chest. "You want a divorce because your husband is getting old? How messed up is that?"

Gibbs just said, "Yeah," again, waiting to see what else Tony would say. Tony was silent for a long time, and Gibbs began to think the subject had been dropped. 

"So, would you still love me if I went bald?" Tony asked finally, his voice light and teasing, but Gibbs knew better.

"I'd love you if you were old, bald, and covered in wrinkles, Tony. It's you I love, not what how you look," Gibbs said, pulling Tony in tighter.

"So I can quit going to the gym?" Tony asked cheekily.

Laughing, Gibbs flipped them over, so that he was lying on top of Tony. "Only if you don't mind if I do, too." he said, then he proceeded to show Tony just how much he loved him.


	5. Five and Alive

‘'Five and Alive"

"This is the true nature of home -- it is the place of Peace; the shelter, not only from injury, but from all terror, doubt and division." John Ruskin

 

Gibbs looked at his watch. Two and a half hours - that's how long Tony had been up in the guest room. Well, he guessed you couldn't call it the guest bedroom anymore. Over the past few months it had slowly become the home gym. At first it was just the treadmill, which had at one time, much to Gibbs' displeasure, been housed in the den. He'd been glad when Tony suggested moving it upstairs. The bed had disappeared at the same time a rowing machine had appeared, which was followed the same week by a set of free weights. The punching bag in the center of the room had required special installation, its chain run up through a hole in the ceiling to be secured to the wooden support beams in the attic. A portable massage table had magically appeared on his birthday. The latest addition had been a recumbent stationary bicycle, that Tony assured him would be easier on his knees and other joints than the less expensive traditional bike. He knew he grumbled a lot about the changes, but he didn't really mind. No one used the guest room, and he had to admit, if only to himself, that it was convenient to be able to work out at home. But that wasn't what Tony was doing tonight. Tonight he was up there exorcising demons, and Gibbs wasn't sure how long to let it go on. He could hear the thud, thud, thud of the punching bag, as Tony repeatedly drove his fists into it. He guessed it was better the bag, than Vance's face. Tony had barely said two words on the drive from the Navy Yard to home, too angry over the day's events to trust himself to speak. After stepping into the house, he'd muttered something Gibbs hadn't caught about the gym, and then stormed upstairs. He'd been there ever since. 

He didn't blame Tony, today had been the capper on what had already been a shitty week. They'd been called out to help another team with a drug raid, something they rarely did. When someone was needed to go undercover to make a buy, Vance had volunteered Tony, citing his experience as both an undercover agent and his years in narcotics with the police force. Tony had argued that they didn't have time to set up a proper sting, and that the other team hadn't done all their homework, but neither the other team leader, nor Vance would listen to him. In the end, it had all gone sour, and Tony had ended up having to shoot a fifteen year old, before the kid could fire the gun he was aiming directly at Tony's head. No one, including Vance, questioned that it had been a righteous shooting, it had all been caught on the wire and miniature video camera Tony had been wearing, but Vance, worried that it could turn into a PR nightmare, had suspended Tony with pay, pending the IA review of the shooting. He hadn't needed to do that. The standard procedure for this type of thing was to assign the agent to desk duty, but Vance, afraid the media would latch onto the incident because the boy had only been fifteen, wanted it to look like NCIS was being fair, and thoroughly investigating the incident, and Tony had been sacrificed on the altar of ‘appearances matter.' Gibbs had argued that it looked like a punishment, and Vance had refused to listen. The IA team had assured Gibbs it would all be cleared up on Monday, but today was Friday, and Tony was going to brood about it all weekend. 

‘Thud, thud, thud,' echoed through the house. Gibbs raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. He knew it wasn't only the suspension that had Tony upset. No matter the reason, the cold fact was that he had shot and killed a kid today. That wasn't easy for anyone, and Tony, despite his devil-may-care façade, felt things more deeply than most. Gibbs was sure that only fifty percent of Tony's anger was directed at Vance, the other fifty percent he would have reserved for himself. He was probably up there right now, re-examining everything he had done today, looking for the way it could have been avoided - the way he had screwed up. Gibbs had known better than to try and convince Tony it had been unavoidable earlier. He wasn't ready to hear it. He'd pretended he wasn't aware that Tony had vomited in the bathroom the minute they got back to the Yard. He'd pretended he didn't see the slight tremor in Tony's hand, as he'd handed his gun over to the IA agent. He'd even pretended not to see the way Tony had stiffened when Abby had thrown her arms around him, carrying on about how glad she was he hadn't been hurt. For the last two and a half hours, he'd pretended this was a normal work out session. ‘Thud, thud, thud' - Gibbs decided it was time to stop pretending.

He took the steps two at a time. When he got to the guest room he forced himself to pause and study Tony. He was wearing only a pair of gym shorts, his t-shirt, socks and shoes lay discarded on the floor, and he was covered in sweat. His hands were also bare, and Gibbs looked around, spotting the boxing gloves on the opposite side of the room, where they had probably landed after being removed and hurled at the wall. The punching bag was flying back and forth as Tony pummeled it with his unprotected fists. At least this couldn't have been going on for too long, he thought, noting that although Tony's hands were red, there didn't appear to be any blood. Gibbs crossed over to Tony, and wrapped his arms around the bag. "Enough," he commanded loudly.

"Let go," Tony panted, his arms still raised, ready to swing again.

"No, I said that's enough," Gibbs repeated, refusing to release the punching bag, knowing that no matter how angry Tony was, he wouldn't risk hitting him.

Tony was now bent over, his hands on his thighs, chest heaving, as he attempted to catch his breath.

"You've been at this long enough," Gibbs said firmly. 

Tony stood straight again, and turned towards the treadmill. Gibbs stepped in front of him, to block him.

"Get out of my way," Tony growled.

"Not gonna happen," Gibbs answered steadily.

"I said, get out of my way," Tony said again, but this time his voice was more of a plea. When Gibbs wouldn't move, he tried to push him aside. 

Gibbs stood firm, refusing to budge. The hands Tony had on his shoulders began to shake, and Gibbs reached out and covered them with his own, both to lend him his strength, and to prevent Tony from drawing away. Tony looked directly at Gibbs, his eyes too bright and glassy, then his grip tightened, and he yanked Gibbs to him, locking their mouths together, teeth scraping teeth, tongue against tongue. Gibbs released Tony's hands and reached down, grabbing Tony's ass, pulling his hips into his body, so that he could grind against Tony. He knew Tony didn't need or want gentle lovemaking. He needed it raw and primal, something capable of replacing the physical release he'd been trying to achieve with the punching bag. Gibbs grabbed Tony's head with one hand, wrapping his fingers through Tony's hair, not bothering to be gentle, forcing his tongue deep into Tony's mouth, needing to exert control, not trusting Tony with the lead. He would let it be rough, but was not willing to let Tony use their lovemaking as a form of punishment. 

When he finally broke off the kiss, he pulled off his own shirt and pushed Tony to the floor, quickly covering his body with his own. Yanking down Tony's gym shorts and underwear, he wrapped his hand around Tony, as his mouth sought out his neck. Tony's body arched and twisted, and if it weren't for his hands raking up and down his back, Gibbs would have thought he was trying to get away. He tightened his hand, and began to move it up and down, while he lifted his head back up, recapturing Tony's lips with his own. Tony matched the force of the kiss, and slid his hands between their bodies, to undo Gibbs' pants. Gibbs released Tony long enough to help, pulling Tony's clothes off the rest of the way while he was at it. He bent down for a kiss, before he stood and grabbed the body oil next to the massage table. Then he crouched back over Tony, pushing his legs apart so that he could lie between them. Tony responded by wrapping his legs around Gibbs, pulling him down onto his body, his hips rising up to meet Gibbs, his hands once again digging into Gibbs' shoulders. Gibbs used the oil to prepare Tony, all the while holding Tony's eyes with his own, not saying a word. When Tony was ready, he pushed in all the way in one fluid motion, and began to thrust, hard and deep, his slick hand wrapping around Tony, matching the rhythm of his hips. Tony made low keening sounds, then closed his eyes and spread his arms wide, giving himself completely over to the sensations. Gibbs smiled, that was what he had been hoping for - acceptance. When Tony's body couldn't hold back any longer, he shuddered his release, gasping and crying as he broke into a thousand pieces, bringing Gibbs along with him. 

When he had recovered enough to move, Gibbs slid further up Tony's body, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Tears streamed slowly from Tony's closed eyes, and Gibbs licked them away, replacing them with kisses. He slid his hands into Tony's hair once again, but this time he softly caressed the silky strands of hair, his fingers ghosting gently against the scalp. For the first time since he had entered the room, Tony's breathing began to calm, ragged gasps replaced by contented sighs. They lay like that for a long time, until the sweat on Gibbs' body began to make him chill.

"Let's go take a hot shower, and then go to bed," he said softly to Tony, as he gently pulled out of him. Tony allowed himself to be helped up, and hand in hand, they headed to the master bath. 

Once they were clean again, they crawled into bed. Gibbs reached out, pulling Tony to him. Tony rested his head on Gibbs' shoulder, dropping a limp arm across his chest. As he soothingly rubbed his hand across Tony's back, he lightly kissed the top of his head. 

"You know Tony, it wasn't..." Gibbs began, but Tony stopped him with a kiss.

When the kiss was over, Tony smiled at him and said, "You don't need to say it. I'm dealing with it." He kissed Gibbs again, and then lay his head back down on his shoulder, closing his eyes, finally ready for sleep.


	6. At Sixes and Sevens

"At Sixes and Sevens"

Seek home for rest, for home is best. Thomas Tusser

 

"Tony, don't! You've got to get off him." 

Tony could feel light pressure from the hands on his shoulders, but the voice seemed to be coming from a long way off, tinny and barely audible.

"Tony!" 

The hands were more insistent now, yanking at him, trying to pull him off the man he had pinned to the ground, but he just shrugged them off, as he continued to pummel his fists into the man. He knew he had to hurt him, even though he couldn't remember why. He couldn't see clearly, red dots swam in his eyes, but he could tell his aim was true as his fists connected with soft flesh, and that was all he cared about right now.

"Tony, stop it! We need him alive. Tony!?! Can you hear me? The paramedics are going to be here soon. Go wait with Gibbs, I've got Johnson," the voice said, as the hands pulled at him. Tony paused for a moment, trying to clear his head, and the voice pressed on. 

"Tony, Gibbs needs you. Go watch over him while I cuff Johnson, and get someone to take him in."

‘Gibbs,' Tony thought. ‘Gibbs needs me.' His brain wasn't working right. It was taking too long to process words, and nothing seemed quite real. ‘Why does Gibbs need me?' he wondered, as he tried to look around, but moving his head made everything worse. Everything he looked at was surrounded by a haze that pulsed like a force field from a Star Trek episode, making him feel dizzy, and the objects seem oddly insubstantial. ‘Gibbs,' he thought again. ‘Where is Gibbs?' He looked up, Timothy McGee's blurry face loomed over him, and Tony squinted, trying to bring the features into focus.

"Tony?" the voice asked, and he thought it was coming from McGee, but his ears and eyes seemed to be disconnected, and it was hard to hear anything around the deafening whooshing sound that was ringing in his ears. "Tony, let's get you up. Johnson isn't going anywhere. It'll take awhile for him to come around again, anyway." The voice said something else, but Tony couldn't make it out, although he didn't think it had been addressed to him.

Tony was aware of the hands helping him to stand. "Gibbs?" his mouth said, although he hadn't consciously tried to speak. 

"He's over by that tree," the voice said, and this time Tony was sure it was McGee speaking, because he could see him gesture off to Tony's left.

Tony forced his eyes to follow the hand until he saw where it was pointing. The noise in his head was beginning to abate somewhat, and the red dots in his eyes were scattering, allowing him to see a bit better. Someone lay on the ground under the tree. Although he couldn't be sure, Tony didn't think he was moving. "Gibbs?" he asked again.

"Over there, Tony. Come on, I'll go with you. Williams will deal with Johnson," McGee said, and Tony wondered for a brief moment about who Williams and Johnson were, but dismissed that as unimportant. When Tony took a step forward, pain shot through his body, surprising him, and causing him to stumble and gasp. McGee caught him before he fell, then grabbed Tony's arm, wrapped it around his shoulder, taking some of the pressure off Tony's right ankle. "I've got you," McGee said, "Just lean on me as we walk."

When they'd gone a few steps, Tony saw that the body on the ground was Gibbs. His whole right side was covered in blood. The whooshing sound and red dots returned to full strength, and his whole body became tingly and cold. He flashed back on a gunshot, and Gibbs falling. He remembered running after the person who had fired the shot, and a fight, but the details all seemed jumbled together, making them hard to sort out. He must have stopped moving, because McGee said, "Come on Tony. We need to keep going."

Tony didn't want to move though; he wasn't even sure if he could. He didn't want to go over there, over to where Gibbs lay. ‘What if he's dead?' a voice in his head screamed. He couldn't look at him.

"He's not dead," McGee soothed, and Tony realized he must have spoken out loud. "The bullet got him in the shoulder. He just passed out from the pain. As long as the paramedics get here soon, he's going to be fine." McGee nudged at Tony, trying to get him to move again. "We need to get you over there. You aren't in much better shape, Tony, and you need to sit down."

‘Alive. Gibbs is alive!' the thought played over and over again in Tony's head, drowning out almost everything else. 

"........hit your head........cut over your eye........" McGee was saying to Tony, as they made their way slowly to where Gibbs lay. ".........bleeding stopped........bullet's still in there?" Tony didn't even try to follow what McGee was saying, he was focused on reaching Gibbs. When they got there, McGee let Tony sink down beside Gibbs. 

"Gibbs? Gibbs, wake up," Tony pleaded, groping around until his hands touched Gibbs. He was relieved when the sound of a siren cut through the noise in his head. The paramedics were there, and they would help Gibbs. "EMTs are here Boss. You're going to be fine," Tony assured Gibbs' limp body.

Feet pounding on pavement, and the spinning wheels of a gurney pulled Tony's attention away from Gibbs, as the paramedics descended. After that everything seemed to happen in a blur. Gibbs was loaded onto the gurney, and surrounded by medical personnel. Two paramedics turned their attention to Tony, blocking his view of what was happening with Gibbs.

"Sir, just stay sitting. I need you to look at me sir," a paramedic said when Tony tried to stand up to see what was going on. 

"I need to go with him," Tony insisted.

"Oh, don't worry, you're going, too," the paramedic had assured him. "I just need to get a sense of what's going on with you. Can you tell me where you're hurt?"

"I'm fine," Tony said, batting away the paramedic's hand. "What's happening with Gibbs?" Tony demanded.

"He's going to be alright. They're just stabilizing him. Looks like the bullet went straight through. Now, tell me what happened to you," the paramedic said, in a calming voice.

‘Gibbs is going to be fine,' that was all Tony heard, although part of his brain registered the fact that the ringing in his ears had stopped, and he felt less chilled.

"He was in a fight with our perp," McGee supplied for Tony. "He did something to his right ankle, and I think his head got banged on the ground a couple of times. He seems kind of out of it. I'm not sure if there's anything else wrong, he hasn't said much."

Before he knew it, Tony had been loaded into the ambulance, next to the gurney holding Gibbs. Gibbs eyes were open and he had an oxygen mask on, but he pulled it off when he saw Tony. "Tony, you okay?" Gibbs asked, fighting off the paramedic who was trying to fix the mask back on his face.

"Was gonna ask you the same thing," Tony grinned, the sound of Gibbs' voice relieving him beyond measure. "I'm fine, but I was worried about you."

"Yeah, you look fine DiNozzo. What'd you do, stop Johnson with your head?" Gibbs asked sardonically.

That's right, Tony remembered. They'd been after a two-bit scam artist named Johnson. No one had thought he was very dangerous, so they'd been shocked when he'd pulled a gun. The last thing Tony remembered clearly was the gun going off, and Gibbs falling to the ground. After that, it was all fuzzy. He remembered being angry and scared, wrestling the gun away from Johnson, but that was about it. "Just got a few bumps and bruises, Boss. Nothing out of the ordinary," Tony answered.

"I need you to put the oxygen mask back on sir," the paramedic insisted, and Gibbs had grumbled, but complied, the pain in his shoulder making it too hard to argue further.

The scene at the hospital had been ugly. Once the doctors had confirmed that the bullet had passed through Gibbs' shoulder, had cleaned and stitched the wound, and administered a round of antibiotics intravenously, Gibbs had demanded to be released. Tony wasn't any better. The doctors confirmed that he had a mild concussion, had sprained his ankle, and had put twelve sutures in the cut above his eye. They had wanted to keep him overnight as well, and Tony wasn't having it. By the time McGee got to the hospital several hours later, after running the crime scene, securing Johnson in a holding cell, and dealing with Vance, Tony and Gibbs had already left.

"Gone? What do you mean they're gone? How could you let that happen!?" he'd demanded of the nurse at the registration desk in the ER. "They should both have been here for at least a night, if not longer. And how did they leave? Neither one had a car here!" he stormed, thinking the day couldn't get any more bizarre.

"All I can tell you is that they signed themselves out ‘Against Medical Advice' and called a cab. After that, your guess is as good as mine," snapped the nurse, who decided she officially hated all NCIS agents.

McGee didn't bother responding, as he spun on his heels and headed back out to his car. He didn't know what to do. Normally Ducky would take care of situations like this, but he and Abby were at some kind of forensics conference delivering a paper they had jointly written, and wouldn't be back for two days. Someone was going to have to check up on them, he knew. Deciding Gibbs was the bigger concern, he steered his car towards Gibbs' house. When McGee pulled into Gibbs' drive, he saw a light coming from an upstairs room. ‘Well, at least he isn't in the basement working on his damn boat,' he thought. He didn't bother knocking. With any luck at all, Gibbs would be asleep in his bed, and besides, everyone knew Gibbs never locked his door.

Tony sat in the darkened living room, staring blindly at the far wall, a nearly empty bottle of beer in his hand. At his feet, sat the remnants of the rest of the two six-packs he'd pulled out of the refrigerator a while ago. Gibbs had been asleep for the last hour and a half, the pain from his injury, and the medicine the doctor had prescribed, finally getting the better of him. Tony, not wanting to disturb him, and knowing that he would be asleep for hours, had hobbled back downstairs. Not really knowing what to do with himself, and wanting to wash the day away, Tony had resorted to the beer. He had refused to take anything for the pain, not liking the way narcotics make him feel, but alcohol was a different matter, and besides, it was just beer, he'd told himself. He was willing to try anything that would help him erase the image of Gibbs falling to the ground from his mind. The beer and the residual shock, combined with the concussion he refused to acknowledge, and had neglected to mention to Gibbs, were making him woozy. The upside of that, he told himself, was that sitting upright had become such a challenge, he didn't have the energy to keep replaying the day. 

McGee let himself in, and began to move slowly forward. Light from the streetlights spilled into the room through the sheer drapes over the windows, but it was still dark, and his eyes had not adjusted fully yet, making it hard to see anything much more than shapes. He had only been to Gibbs' house a couple of times, but each time he had been so excited by the opportunity to get a glimpse at the private side of his boss' life, that he had memorized as many details as possible. He knew the small entry way opened into the living room. A green and beige striped couch, he recalled, was planted in the center of the room, facing a modest fireplace, it's mantel decorated with pictures from when Gibbs had been in the Corps. As he crept forward, he wasn't prepared for someone to rise up from the couch and spin to face him. As he was reaching for his gun, he realized the person in front of him was Tony.

"McGee?" Tony was looking at him in confusion, his eyes narrowed, as if trying to confirm what he was seeing. "What're you doing here?"

"I just came to make sure the boss is okay," McGee stuttered, taking in the fact that Tony was wearing just a pair of sweat pants and holding a bottle of beer.

"Oh," Tony said, as if that explained everything and sank limply back down onto the couch. "He's asleep, but the doctors said he's gonna be fine." 

McGee thought he heard a slur in Tony's voice, and he stepped further into the room. That was when he saw all the empty bottles at Tony's feet. "I'm going to turn on the lamp over here," McGee said, as he crossed to a small table placed next to the wingback chair diagonal from the couch, and switched on the light. 

"Knock yourself out," Tony said, waving the hand that held the bottle airily in McGee's direction. When he noticed the bottle he said, "I'd offer you a beer, but I think I drank them all." Then he giggled rather manically. 

The light enabled McGee to study Tony more closely. He winced when he saw the multiple bruises on Tony's arms and chest, and the expertly applied bandage on his forehead indicated that the cut over his eye had required stitches. His right ankle was wrapped in ace bandages, and an ankle brace had been applied over the top of that. Tony was watching him in a lazy, mildly curious manner, as if trying to figure out what to say next. When McGee looked at Tony's eyes, he realized they were red rimmed, as if Tony had been crying, and it was clear that he was drunk. Nothing made any sense to McGee.

"And did the doctors say it would be fine for you both to leave the hospital?" McGee asked Tony.

"They didn't stop us," Tony responded with a smirk. "Besides, they said Gibbs needed to rest, and everyone knows you can't get any sleep in a hospital," he said, now trying hard to sound reasonable. Then he ruined it all by belching, and laughing.

"I think maybe you should lie down too, Tony," McGee suggested.

"Can't, gotta make sure Gibbs is okay," Tony was shaking his head vigorously, even though the motion was making him dizzy.

"Why don't we go check on him, and then we can talk about it some more?" McGee offered.

"Good idea, Probie-Wan Kenobi!" Tony said, lurching to his feet again. 

McGee rushed over to Tony, afraid he was going to topple over. "Come on Tony, let me help you," McGee said, as he reached out to steady his partner. 

"You're a good friend," Tony said, as he threw an arm around McGee's shoulder.

"Let's just leave this beer down here," McGee said, as he gently took the glass bottle out of Tony's hand. When it looked like Tony might object, he added, "You can finish it when we come back down."

"Okay," Tony said agreeably. "I think I may've had enough anyway," he whispered, as if sharing a deep, dark secret.

"Yeah, me too, Tony," McGee agreed, as he placed the bottle on the coffee table in front of the couch. "So, where is Gibbs?" he then asked. "Let's go see how he's doing." 

"Upstairs, in the bedroom," Tony answered, and headed towards the stairs, pulling McGee along with him, as part of his weight rested on McGee's shoulders. 

They made their way up the stairs successfully, if not very gracefully. 

"Last door on the right," Tony slurred after McGee paused at the top of the stairs.

When they entered the bedroom, McGee saw Gibbs lying on the bed, under the covers. The top of his chest and his shoulders stuck out, and he could see the dressing on his right shoulder. He face was peaceful, and he seemed to be sound asleep. Tony dropped his arm from McGee's shoulder as he stood gazing at their boss.

"See, he's doing fine," McGee whispered to Tony. "He's sound asleep. Just like you should be. Why don't we go and then you can lie down," he suggested, hoping Tony wouldn't argue.

"Maybe I should," Tony said, sounding kind of surprised. "I feel sort a funny. Think sleep might help."

Before McGee could stop him, Tony crossed to the bed, pulled the covers back, and lay down beside Gibbs. McGee stared in horror, wondering how he was going to get Tony out of there without waking Gibbs. McGee was still trying to work that out when Tony snuggled in closer to Gibbs, and shut his eyes.

"Tony?" an open mouthed McGee heard Gibbs mutter, never opening his eyes.

"Yeah, s'me," Tony replied, already half asleep. "Go back to sleep Jethro."

McGee was cringing, waiting for the explosion, when to his amazement, Gibbs rolled onto his left side, and slid a leg around Tony's thighs, moving his head until their foreheads touched. McGee didn't think he had ever really woken up. Slowly backing out of the room and moving as quietly as he could, McGee tried to make sense of what he'd just seen.

When he got down the stairs, he headed straight for the front door, and let himself out. He was breathing a bit easier by the time he got into his car. As he backed the car out onto the street, he realized that this explained a lot. It certainly explained Tony's reaction to Gibbs being shot today, and the way he had beaten Johnson to a pulp. Tony had been more centered lately, he realized, less frenetic. Thinking back over the past few months, he realized that Gibbs had even laughed at some of Tony's jokes and more outrageous pranks. It also explained why there hadn't been any pizza and movie nights at Tony's for a long time. McGee hadn't really thought too much about it until now, since he was spending all his spare time trying to meet the deadline on his next novel, and Abby ~ Abby must know ~ it suddenly occurred to him. Last time he had made a disparaging remark about Tony's transient love life, Abby had just smirked at him, and given him a knowing smile. At the time, he hadn't really thought about it, or any of the other things for that matter, but now, it all made sense. 

McGee wasn't shocked, well that wasn't true, he wasn't shocked because they were both men. He was shocked because Gibbs had broken one of his own rules - number twelve - never date a co-worker. He was also shocked by the obvious ease and affection that existed between the two men. It was a side of them he'd never seen before. As he thought about it, he was surprised when it slowly dawned on him that they were perfect for each other. Gibbs needed someone to make him smile and laugh, and Tony needed someone to ground him. McGee also knew that under Tony's self assured mask, lay a sea of insecurities, and no one would deny Gibbs' need to protect. By the time he got to his own home, McGee was smiling, glad that Tony and Gibbs had found the perfect someone to love. It wasn't until he had closed his front door that a terrible thought crashed down on him. ‘What am I going to say to them tomorrow?'


	7. At Sevens and Sixes

"At Sevens and Sixes"

Home is the one place in all this world where hearts are sure of each other. It is the place of confidence. It is the place where we tear off that mask of guarded and suspicious coldness which the world forces us to wear in self-defense.... Frederick W. Robertson

 

"God, I think I'm going to be sick," Tony muttered softly, as he slowly tried to sit up. He'd been lying in bed for the last half hour, partially awake, trying to ignore the pounding in his head, and the acidic gurgling of his stomach, idly thinking he might be better off if he was dead. He'd still be doing that now, except his phone was ringing, each shrill chime stabbing sharply, directly into the center of his brain. Gibbs, who was asleep at his side, was beginning to stir, disturbed by the sound of the phone. A quick glance at the digital clock on the bedside table told him it was 8:00 a.m. ‘Oh shit! Work!' he swore silently. Fighting down the nausea the change in altitude caused, Tony pushed himself out of bed, and reached for his suit pants, which were still crumpled in a ball on the floor, exactly where he had left them the day before. Patting around until he found what he was looking for, he pulled the cell phone out of a pocket and grunted into it, "DiNozzo."

No one answered.

Looking down at the phone, it took a minute for the display to swim into focus. When he had his eyes back under control, he saw, ‘One Missed Call.' 

‘Damn it!' he silently cursed, as he touched the screen to see who it had been. ‘Probie,' the screen read. ‘Probably wondering where we are,' was Tony's first thought, followed by, ‘McGee, there was something I should remember about McGee.' He vaguely recalled needing to talk to the probie, but he became too distracted by the bass drum that had apparently taken up residence in his head to try and sort out what it was about. He was just about to call him back when his phone chirped, indicating that he had new voicemail. Punching the message, he held the phone up to his ear and listened.

"Um....ah, um, this is McGee. Um..... I forgot to tell you last night that Vance said you and Gibbs should take today, and the weekend off. Ah, he...... um...... he wants me to get your statements though, so, um, I'll just call you later, okay? Right. Um..... So, hope you guys are feeling better. Um..... bye."

‘Last night?' Tony thought. ‘What in the hell is he talking about?'

"Who was it?" Gibbs called lazily from the bed, apparently now awake.

"McGee," Tony answered distractedly, half heartedly trying to figure out what he was missing, as he wobbled back over towards the bed. "He said Vance gave us off until Monday."

"Then come back to bed," Gibbs said sleepily. Tony thought that sounded like a good idea as he looked over at Gibbs, eyes barely open, body warm and inviting.

"How you feeling?" Tony asked softly, as he slid back under the covers and scootched over by Gibbs.

"I've been better," Gibbs answered truthfully, as he allowed Tony to draw him close and wrap his arms around him. "You?" he asked, his voice barely audible, as his arm settled around Tony's waist.

"Same here. Feel like I'm forgetting something important, but my head hurts too much to sort it out," Tony moaned, yawning into Gibbs' chest, enjoying the way the wiry grey hairs tickled his nose with the familiar aroma, thinking he might just be able to go back to sleep after all, and hoping the world would look better next time he woke up. The sound of gentle breathing was Gibbs' only reply. Tilting his head up, Tony saw that Gibbs was asleep again. He pressed a soft kiss to Gibbs' wounded shoulder, and before too long, Tony fell back to sleep also.

McGee punched the ‘end call' button on his cell phone, and as most of the tension he'd been carrying slowly seeped out of his body, he took a second to enjoy the feeling of relief that washed over him. He'd just been given a reprieve by voicemail. It hadn't been until he got to work that morning, and looked at the empty desks surrounding him, that he'd remembered what Vance had said yesterday. He'd been too wrapped up in what he'd discovered last night, and how he was going to deal with it, to think about much else. He just knew that Gibbs was going to kill him in some slow, painful manner; he didn't like anyone to know anything about his private life. He'd also come to realize that Tony, despite all his exaggerated tall tales about his many exploits, didn't share real information much more than Gibbs. The whole mess with Jeanne Benoit had been proof of that, and it didn't get much more personal than this; it wasn't everyday you discovered that your boss was sleeping with his very male, second in command. Just like that, his temporary respite from the blinding panic disappeared the instant he had those thoughts. He found himself wishing Abby was there, but then he remembered he was mad at her for keeping this secret from him. Did she think he couldn't handle it? He shook his head, realizing wryly that maybe she'd been right. Look at him - he was a mess! 

McGee put the phone away and pulled out his report on yesterday's incident. Maybe if he buried himself in paperwork he'd be able to calm down, he reasoned. Unfortunately, his brain refused to cooperate, being much more interested in mulling over what he'd learned.

'This obviously isn't going to change the way things happen at work,' he thought. The comfort the two men had unconsciously provided for each other last night had been clear evidence that they'd been together for awhile. 'How have I missed the signs,' he wondered. 'Had there even been any? How long has it been going on?' He thought back over the last several months, trying to remember anything that should have clued him in to the change in Tony's and Gibbs' relationship, but couldn't come up with anything specific. Tony had seemed more confident, he'd noticed, but McGee had chalked that up to the time Tony had spent as team leader while Gibbs had been gone. Gibbs seemed ever so slightly more approachable since he'd gotten back from Mexico; if there was any way a coiled cobra could be viewed as approachable. At least Gibbs wasn't as quick to slap the back of Tony's head, which in turn made Tony slap his. ‘Oh my god, maybe that was it,' McGee thought. Maybe Gibbs didn't need to slap Tony anymore. Maybe he now had better ways of dealing with Tony when he got out of hand. McGee gave himself an imaginary head slap. 'What kind of investigator am I?! How could I have not questioned such a major change in habit? That's supposed to be one of the major indicators that something important has happened. How many times have I asked a witness about that very thing?' Feeling very stupid, McGee tried to get back to work.

The rest of the morning passed in a similar vein for McGee. He'd just get started on something when his head would flash back on the night before. It was if he'd been a voyeur, and that's what bothered him the most - as if he'd spied on someone's personal life uninvited - and even though he knew it wasn't technically true, it didn't make him feel any better. Knowing that he had to go see them to get their statements only made it worse. When Vance asked him late in the morning if he'd talked to Tony and Gibbs yet, he knew he'd have to get it over with soon. 'Whoever said facing your fears helped you conquer them, didn't know what they were talking about,' he told himself, as he dialed Tony's number for the second time that day.

The comforting feel of fingers cording through his hair woke Tony up. Opening his eyes, he found Gibbs, laying on his side, just looking at him, a small smile on his lips. 'I want to wake up that way every day for the rest of my life,' he thought, as he stared back into those beautiful blue eyes. 'God, I almost lost him yesterday,' Tony thought. Suddenly he was overcome by the need to reassure himself that Gibbs was there, with him, alive, and more or less in one piece. Pushing Gibbs onto his back, and covering him with his own body, remembering, just in time, not to put any pressure on Gibbs' shoulder, Tony reached up and grasped Gibbs' face in both hands. He pressed his lips to Gibbs' in a kiss that was more about possession than passion, then contented himself with just gazing down at Gibbs' face. 

"What brought that on?" Gibbs asked, smiling up at him when Tony released his lips. 

"I thought you were dead," Tony whispered.

Gibbs reached up with his good arm, and ran a hand down Tony's cheek. "Still here," he said softly.

Tony bent down for another kiss, needing yet another physical reminder that Gibbs was okay, and knowing that kissing was about all either one of them was up to at that moment.

"You taste and smell like beer. What did you do last night, self medicate?" Gibbs laughed, after Tony had collapsed back down, resting his head on Gibbs' left shoulder.

"Yeah, if McGee hadn't stopped over I'd probably still be sitting down......" Tony stopped abruptly. "Holy fuck!" he cursed, bolting upright, as the events of last night finally coalesced in his mind.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Gibbs asked, puzzled by the sudden change in Tony.

"Oh god, we've got a problem," Tony moaned, as he started to panic. "Damn, damn, damn! Stupid, stupid, stupid! I was so fucking stupid!"

"Tony, get a hold of yourself. What are you talking about?" Gibbs demanded.

"Last night. I'm talking about last night!" Tony hissed at Gibbs, as if that should explain everything.

"Okay," Gibbs said carefully. "What about last night?" He now sounded like he was talking to a small child.

"McGee and last night," Tony regarded Gibbs with wild eyes.

"What about McGee and last night? You've got to give me a little more, here, Tony. I was pretty out of it last night," Gibbs coaxed.

"McGee!" Tony bit out. "He stopped over last night to check on you. I was in the living room and I'd had too many beers," he stopped there.

"And?" Gibbs prompted.

"He wanted to check on you, so we came up here. You were asleep, and McGee said I should be too. Oh, god," Tony groaned again, letting his head sink into his hands, his headache suddenly returning with a vengeance. "So when he said that, I climbed into bed and snuggled up next to you." Tony kept his head down, wincing slightly as he waited for the explosion he fully expected. 

There was total silence in the room for several moments, and Tony was afraid to look at Gibbs. Then Gibbs began to laugh. Tony looked up in shock. Gibbs was laughing harder now, and clutching at his right arm, the shaking from the laughter clearly causing him pain, but seemingly unable to stop. Tony just stared at him as if he'd lost his mind, which only seemed to amuse Gibbs more. Gibbs' refusal to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation began to piss Tony off. "What in the hell's the matter with you?" he snapped at Gibbs.

"I'll bet McGee's shitting his pants," Gibbs managed to gasp out around the chuckles that kept escaping. 

Suddenly, the humor in the situation struck Tony, also. Gibbs was right. No practical joke he'd ever played on the probie could have freaked him out as much as he probably was right now. Then Tony remembered the stutters in McGee's message this morning, and before he knew it, Tony was laughing too. "You should have heard the message he left this morning. He could barely complete a sentence," Tony panted, as their laughter began to ebb. When they were both back under control, Tony said, "Seriously though, Gibbs, I outed us to McGee last night. We need to think about what we're going to do," as he sobered up again.

"We're not going to do anything," Gibbs said to him, as he struggled to sit up, so he could see Tony better.

"What, you want to pretend like it didn't happen?" Tony asked incredulously.

"Can't really do that, Tony. But I'm not going to act like I'm ashamed of it, either," Gibbs said forcefully. "What we do in our private time is just that, private. No one gets a say in it, as long as we aren't breaking any laws, or hurting anyone. This hasn't changed anything at work, and isn't going to."

"And if Vance finds out?" Tony demanded.

"Then he finds out. I'd rather he didn't, it'd be simpler that way, but I'm not going to sit around worrying about it, and you can't either, Tony. McGee's not going to run and tell him."

"I know that," Tony sighed. "But that doesn't mean someone else won't. Someone McGee says the wrong thing to."

"So we talk to McGee," Gibbs said, as if it would be as simple as that. 

"You'd better let me do it then, Gibbs. I don't think you telling McGee what he is, or is not going to do, will work in this situation. I think this is going to call for a real conversation." Then a little smile escaped, as Tony pictured Gibbs trying to have a heart to heart with McGee. He wasn't sure which of them would be more uncomfortable. "I don't think he wants to have a conversation with you about it, anyway," he smirked.

"You're probably right about that. It'll be better coming from you. Just make sure...." Gibbs stopped midsentence, and gasped. He'd inadvertently put pressure on his right arm, and the pain which exploded in his shoulder forced him to quit talking.

Tony saw the look on Gibbs' face and correctly guessed what had happened. "Let's get you lying down again, Jethro," he said, as he limped back towards the bed. "You need to take another round of antibiotics anyway, and I'm guessing a pain pill might be in order, too." He helped Gibbs ease back so that he was leaning against the headboard, then after grabbing the glass from the bedside table, he made his way to the bathroom to fill it with water. "Don't we make a pretty pair?" he asked his reflection in the mirror over the sink, as he fingered the bandage on his face. When the glass was full, he carried it back to Gibbs, and shook out the pills from the bottles next to the bed. "Don't even think about it," he ordered, when it looked like Gibbs was going to argue over taking the pain pill. "You got shot. I think you're entitled to a little relief." He pressed the pills into Gibbs' hand, and stood, watching, to make sure Gibbs swallowed them all. 

"Gotta use the head," Gibbs said, after taking the medicine. 

"I'll help you," Tony volunteered, "but when you're done, its back to bed for you." It was a testament to how much pain Gibbs was in, when he didn't argue with Tony. 

Once Gibbs was securely wrapped back up in the bedcovers, Tony ran a warm hand through Gibbs' hair. He loved the feel of the soft, silver locks, and never tired of touching them. "Don't worry, Jethro. I know what to say to McGee. I know I freaked out about it earlier, but I've got it covered. I just didn't want anything ruining all this," he said, hoping Gibbs would understand what he meant.

"No one else is going to ruin us, Tony. If this doesn't work out, it'll be because either you or me screws it up, not someone else. And I'm not going to let that happen," Gibbs told him vehemently in a husky voice, as he reached up to his head and covered Tony's hand with his own, lacing his fingers through Tony's, and squeezing gently. He pulled Tony's hand down, and pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist. "Lie back down with me?" he asked.

Tony gazed down at him, his eyes large and liquid. There was nothing he'd rather do then spend the day in bed with Gibbs, but common sense prevailed. "I'd better not. McGee said he needed to get our statements, which means he'll have to come over here at some point. I left a mess downstairs that I want to get picked up, and I need to get myself cleaned up and dressed, too. I'd rather not have this discussion with McGee wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants," the last statement made him grin slightly, as the picture formed in his mind. "Besides, if I lay down with you, I might not be able to make myself get back up, and I know McGee isn't ready to see us in bed together again. Although, I think the image might be permanently burned into his retinas already. You rest, and maybe when McGee leaves, we can thoroughly explore just how much better you're doing."

"I'll hold you to that," Gibbs said.

"I'm counting on it," Tony said, leaning over for a quick kiss. "Sleep now, coffee, tea, and me later," he promised, sliding out of Gibbs' grasp.

Gibbs was asleep again by the time Tony got out of the bathroom. After he'd rewrapped his ankle, he discovered, much to his disgust, that he could only get sweatpants over its bulk. After grabbing his cell phone, and stopping for a sweatshirt from the dresser, he made his way slowly down the stairs. When he got to the living room, he stopped, shocked by the number of beer bottles on the floor. He knew he'd had too much to drink, but hadn't realized how much had really been too much. Getting the recycling bin from the kitchen to put the bottles in, he got the evidence of his own stupidity cleaned up. He had just started to think about whether his stomach would tolerate a bowl of cereal when his phone rang again.

Snatching it off the table, he looked at the display. McGee. Taking a deep breath, then pushing the button, he gave his standard answer, "DiNozzo."

"Tony?" McGee squeaked, then looked around the bullpen to make sure no one had heard him make that embarrassing sound.

"I thought I was the only DiNozzo you knew, Probie," Tony quipped, determined to sound as normal as possible. It wouldn't do for McGee to know that he was a little freaked out by the whole thing, too. 

"You are, I mean, um, I knew it was you, it was just....look, never mind about that." Tony rolled his eyes as he listened to McGee fumble around. 

"Vance says, um.....I need to get your statements today, so, um, are you still at Gibbs'?" McGee reached back and gave himself a head slap when that question popped out. ‘Smooth Tim,' he told himself.

"Where else would I be, McGee? No car, remember?" Tony answered, deciding to let McGee off the hook by brushing the question off.

"Oh, oh yeah, um, right. Um, I'll get someone to drive your cars over there later. So, um, can I come over? To get the statements?" McGee managed to stutter out his question. 

"Sure. Come on over. Gibbs is sleeping right now, but he'll probably be awake by the time you're done getting my report," Tony offered.

"Ah, great. I'll be there in about a half hour, um, if that's okay?"

Tony sighed. ‘This is going to be a real treat,' he told himself. "See you then," he said aloud, and couldn't resist pushing the button and disconnecting, before McGee could say anything more.

McGee stared at his phone. Tony had just hung up on him, he realized, feeling a little miffed. His second thought was that feeling angry beat the hell out of feeling scared, which is how he'd spent the entire morning. Gathering up his stuff, he walked over to the elevator, beginning to think that he might just live through this ordeal.

Tony went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. He knew that Gibbs would need some when he got up, and he didn't want him to talk to McGee decaffeinated. He didn't care how calm Gibbs had sounded earlier when they were talking about the situation; that was no assurance he wouldn't snap if McGee said the wrong thing. As he prepared the coffee maker, he thought about what he needed from McGee. Obviously, he needed McGee to understand why he couldn't say anything about this to anyone else. But that wasn't all. He needed McGee to stop acting as if they'd suddenly grown a third eye, for a couple of reasons. If McGee continued to stutter and stammer when he talked to them, it wouldn't matter if he never said anything about this to other people - they'd figure out something was up, all on their own. Even more importantly, if McGee wasn't comfortable with he and Gibbs, then he couldn't watch their backs properly, and someone was  
going to get hurt - that wasn't acceptable. Now he just had to figure out how to go about it.

After parking his car in Gibbs' driveway, McGee just sat for a several minutes, trying to psych himself up. He'd stopped at a bakery on his way over and picked up a dozen donuts, figuring a little sugar might sweeten the situation, and he absentmindedly fiddled with the label on the box as he sat and thought. He couldn't help admire how cool Tony had been on the phone. He knew that if he'd been in his shoes, he wouldn't even have been able to answer the phone. Tony had sounded absolutely normal, as if nothing had changed. ‘Changed,' McGee thought. ‘What had changed? Was Tony really any different than he'd been two days ago? Did the fact that he and Gibbs were lovers effect how they did the job?' He was still thinking about this when he looked up and saw that Gibbs' front door was open, and Tony was leaning in the door frame, watching him impatiently. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the file sitting next to him and tucked it under the box of donuts, then he climbed out of the car.

When he got to the door, he thrust the box at Tony and said, "Here, I got donuts."

"How very cop like of you," Tony laughed, as he took the box from McGee. "Come on in," and he stood aside to let McGee pass through the door. "Let's go into the kitchen," Tony said, as he led the way through the house. "I've got coffee made, if you want some?" he commented, looking at McGee for a response.

"That'd be great," McGee answered automatically.

When they got into the kitchen, Tony motioned towards a small table with four chairs pulled up to it. "Go ahead and sit, while I get the coffee."

McGee watched as Tony busied himself. He got mugs, spoons, and plates from various places in the cabinets. Then he crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of cream. Tim was amazed by how at ease Tony seemed in Gibbs' kitchen, and he realized it was further proof that this wasn't just a fling. After he'd doctored both his coffee and McGee's, Tony carried the mugs over to the table, then went back to the counter to get the plates and the box of donuts. Once the impromptu breakfast had been served, he sat down across from McGee. When McGee saw the tension in his shoulders, he realized with a start, that Tony wasn't as relaxed as he was trying to appear. Somehow that made him feel better.

McGee thanked him, and then quickly looked back down at his coffee, wondering what he should say to start the conversation he knew was unavoidable.

‘Great,' Tony thought. ‘He can't look me in the eye.' "So, McGee," he began, "about last night..,"

"Look Tony, it's okay. I was just surprised, is all. I hadn't gotten any clues before," McGee interrupted him.

"Well, what can I say? Gibbs and I are good under-covers," Tony quipped, watching for McGee's reaction.

McGee couldn't help it. He groaned at the bad pun, and then raised an eyebrow and sassed, "Pretty stuck on yourself, aren't you Tony? When you've really got it, you don't need to brag."

McGee watched Tony's shoulders relax, and he saw the near invisible mask on Tony's face fall away, as Tony smiled his first genuine smile since he'd arrived. Apparently McGee had just passed a test he hadn't even known he was taking.

Tony opened the box that sat in front of him, and held it out to McGee. "Donut?" he asked.

"Sure," McGee said, returning Tony's smile, amazed at how easy it was.

"Tony, I won't tell...."

"McGee, you can't tell...."

They had both started talking again at the same time, and they laughed when they realized they had been about to say virtually the same thing. 

"Go ahead," McGee said to Tony.

"Guess I don't really need to say it, but I will anyway," Tony said with a smile. "I have to ask you not to tell anyone about us, McGee. If it got out, it could make it real hard at work. After all, it is the land of don't ask, don't tell."

"You don't have to worry, Tony. I wouldn't say anything about it to anyone," McGee assured him. "It's no one's business but yours and Gibbs."

Tony's smile burned a little brighter, and McGee could see what Gibbs' saw in him. "So, are we going to be okay? At work, I mean," Tony clarified.

"Don't see why not. It hasn't been a problem up until now," McGee answered.

"Thanks, Tim," the relief in Tony's voice evident, and his smile so bright now, McGee almost wished for sunglasses. "So, what do you need to know?" Tony surprised McGee by asking.

McGee took a moment. He didn't really need to know anything, but he was pretty sure he'd never get another chance to satisfy his curiosity, and so he couldn't stop himself from asking, "How long?"

"Since right after the whole mess with Jeanne," Tony said softly.

 

Longer than he'd thought, McGee realized. "Do you live here?" McGee shocked himself by asking.

"Yeah, though only officially since last month. I'm using a P.O. box as my address for anything work related."

"Does anyone else know?" McGee asked, wanting to be sure he'd guessed right.

"At work? Just Abby," Tony supplied.

"Okay," McGee said, then he dunked his donut in his coffee. 

"That's it?" Tony asked in surprise.

"Yeah, I'm good," McGee said, amazed when he realized it was true. "Let me take your statement about yesterday, when I'm done with this donut."

"Sure thing, Probie. Have two if you like," Tony said.

McGee was just finishing writing up Tony's account of yesterday, when Gibbs walked into the kitchen. 

"McGee," he nodded as he sat down at the table.

"Hey Boss," McGee answered.

"I'll get you a cup of coffee," Tony offered, standing as he spoke.

Gibbs watched Tony cross to the counter, and then turned to look at McGee. "So, did you get what you needed from Tony?" Gibbs asked him.

"Yeah, it's all good. I was just finishing up right now," McGee said, indicating the paper on the table.

"Did you get his statement, too?" Gibbs asked, looking directly at McGee, making it clear to McGee what he had really been referring to.

"Yeah, that's all good, too," McGee nodded, holding Gibbs' eyes.

"Good," was all Gibbs said, although McGee thought he saw the hint of a smile.

"Want a donut?" Tony asked, his hand poised to pull down a plate if Gibbs said yes.

"Just coffee for now," Gibbs said. "I need to give McGee my statement while I'm still awake, and then he's got to get back so that a neatly typed, official report is on Vance's desk by five," and with that indirect order, it was business as usual again.

When McGee left, their car keys in hand, Gibbs stood up from the table. Looking over at Tony he raised an eyebrow and said, "So, want to come upstairs and prove to me that you're really glad I'm still alive?"

"Probably not a good idea. I don't want to hurt your shoulder," Tony teased, as he stood up and walked over to Gibbs.

"It's not my shoulder that needs convincing, Tony," Gibbs said, as he reached his left hand out and grabbed onto Tony's sweatshirt, pulling him close.

As Tony leaned in to devour Gibbs' mouth, it occurred to him that Gibbs may have been shot yesterday, but today they'd both dodged a bullet. Then Gibbs returned his kiss with equal passion, and Tony stopped thinking about anything.


	8. Eight Hours

"Eight Hours"

The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned. Maya Angelou

 

Gibbs sat on the easy chair in the den, a novel in his hands, surreptitiously watching Tony. Tony sat on the sofa, his legs drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around his calves, holding them in place, his chin resting on his knees, staring blindly at the television. He'd been in that position for over four hours, never bothering to surf from channel to channel, which was a clear indication that he wasn't really watching what was on the screen, because Tony could never watch just one show at a time. Unlike other people, Tony didn't use the commercial breaks to run to the bathroom or get a drink; he used them to check out what was happening on other stations; but today, the remote sat unused on the cushion next to him. Tony hadn't said more than two words during that whole time, either - yet another indicator that something was wrong. Tony was usually not just a spectator when watching television; he was normally a full participant - mouthing his favorite lines along with the actors, pointing out any foreshadowing or visual metaphors, supplying Gibbs with background from previous episodes he felt helped one understand the current situations, and offering commentary on the quality of the script writing, performances and camera techniques. Today he'd said and done nothing, not even bothering to change the channel when the Magnum rerun ended, and an Oprah rerun began.

Gibbs had learned early on not to push Tony when he got like this. It did no good, and only caused him to put on one of his carefully constructed masks, designed to hide whatever was bothering him behind an expertly painted facsimile of a carefree and happy Tony. Actually, it had taken a long time for Tony to feel comfortable enough with Gibbs to allow him to see the more vulnerable side of himself that he usually kept hidden from sight. The first time it had happened, Gibbs had tried to get Tony to tell him what was wrong, only to watch Tony transform into a plastic version of himself, and he didn't, to this day, know what had been bothering the younger man. The next time Gibbs had kept his mouth shut, ignoring Tony's moodiness, and finally, many hours later, Tony had started to talk, telling Gibbs about his friend from Peoria, who had died that day. Over time, Gibbs learned that Tony's dark days, as he'd come to think of them, were only precipitated by deeply personal issues. That wasn't to say that Tony didn't ever get upset by something that happened at work, or by everyday matters, but he didn't usually shut down over those. He might get angry or frustrated, but he'd usually work through that with physical exertion, or a nonstop verbal rant. When Tony withdrew into himself, it was a sure indication that something had hurt him deeply, tearing at the support walls of his psyche, leaving him feeling raw and overexposed. When that happened, he didn't want kind words or a soft touch, needing instead to be left alone as he tried to regain his perspective, after which he might or might not share what had been upsetting him. Gibbs thought it ironic that perhaps the most important indicator of a truly close personal relationship was the ability to recognize and accept when your partner was keeping secrets from you, because that required complete trust - the capacity to have faith in their judgment, secure in the knowledge that any secret they kept had no bearing on your relationship. 

Gibbs didn't know why Tony was hurting, but he knew what had caused it. Everything had been fine earlier in the day. They had taken a long run before breakfast, and made lazy, easy, love in the shower afterwards, consumed by the simple pleasure being together provided, rather than the more urgent passion that often times spurred their lovemaking. Afterwards they had made their way to the kitchen, prepared a meal and discussed their plans for the day. The yard had been tended to, and the vacuum run. They were discussing the possibility of going to a movie, when Gibbs had set the mail on the kitchen table. Tony had thumbed through it, while talking about what was playing. When he got to one particular envelope he'd stopped, pulling it free from the pile. While Gibbs had listed his preferences, Tony had torn open the envelope and read the enclosed letter. His face had flushed as he read, and he abruptly excused himself, rushing for the guest bathroom off the living room, taking the letter with him. Gibbs had followed him part of the way there, but had settled into a chair in the living room after Tony had slammed the bathroom door shut. When Tony had emerged twenty minutes later, the letter no longer visible, he'd pleaded a headache, and said he just wanted to stay home and watch some television. That had been over four hours ago.

Finally Tony stood up. "Going to the bathroom," he said, as he left the room. Gibbs heard the door shut again, with less force than before, and looked at his watch - two o'clock. He heard the flush of the toilet and the sound of water being run in the sink, and then the quiet squeak of the door being opened. He walked slowly into the living room, timing his entrance to coincide with Tony's emergence.

"I'm going to make a sandwich. Do you want one?" he casually asked, as he passed Tony. 

"Not hungry," Tony replied in an emotionless voice. "I'm going to the basement," he then added, as he followed Gibbs into the kitchen.

Gibbs watched Tony descend, as he pulled out the fixings for his lunch. After making himself a BLT from the bacon left over from breakfast, which he ate without really tasting, he went back to the den to shut off the television. Picking up the book he'd been reading that he had discarded when he'd gone to the kitchen, he marked his place and set it on the coffee table by the sofa. Then, switching off his reading light, he too, headed for the basement.

Tony was sitting, curled up like a cat, in the old upholstered rocking chair at the foot of the stairs, rocking slowly and looking at nothing in particular; he didn't bother acknowledging Gibbs when he entered the room. As he passed Tony, on his way to his work table, Gibbs could see the envelope for the letter tucked beside him on the chair. Gibbs picked up his sander, not trusting himself to try anything more complicated, and began to smooth the newest additions to his boat. Gibbs allowed himself to become lost in the repetition of movement, as his hands glided back and forth over the surface of the wood, knowing that Tony would get his attention if he wanted to talk. 

Gibbs snapped out of his personal revelries when he sensed Tony approaching him. Wordlessly, Tony set the envelope on the boat, and returned to his chair. Gibbs snuck a glance at his watch - six o'clock. It had taken Tony eight hours to get to the point where he was ready to address the problem. Looking down, he noted that the letter had been forwarded to the house from Tony's old address, and when he glanced at the return address, he saw it was from Long Island. This was not going to be good. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the letter out, and began to read.

Anthony:

I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to write and let you know, before you saw mention of it in the society pages, that I remarried last month. We have just returned from a month long trip around the world, my wedding gift to Sylvia. She is a lovely woman, and perhaps you will have the opportunity to meet her one day.

I regret being unable to invite you to the service, but it was held at St. Andrews, and since you have given me no reason to believe otherwise, I must only assume that you continue to insist on engaging in an "alternative" life style. I felt your presence would be disrespectful to the Church, and its teachings. It also spared both you and I from having to answer the inevitable embarrassing questions from business associates and family members about your continuing bachelorhood. I am sure you can understand that.

Please let me know if your status should change. In the meantime, please take care of yourself.

Your Father,

Anthony DiNozzo, Sr.

Resisting the urge to rip the letter to shreds, Gibbs slipped it back into the envelope and looked over to where Tony was sitting, watching him.

"That was quite the letter," Gibbs commented, carefully schooling his expression, and keeping his tone of voice as neutral as possible.

"Good thing I'm behind on reading my Town and Country issues, or I might have been in for a huge shock," Tony said sarcastically, sneering when he mentioned the well known fashion and gossip magazine society women read to keep track of their counterparts. "Of course, there are so many Mrs. DiNozzos out there, I might not have realized that Sylvia DiNozzo was a new addition," he followed with a bitter laugh.

Gibbs remained silent, knowing it wasn't the marriage that had upset Tony. 

"What a hypocrite!" Tony spat out. "The church doesn't believe in multiple marriages either, but if you can grease enough palms and get them annulled, it's all okay."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow, encouraging Tony to continue.

"Guess you figured out that dear old Dad knows his progeny's tastes are a little more varied than his own. I believe his exact words to describe it were ‘unnatural and perverted,'" Tony's voice was brittle, and Gibbs knew he was in danger of cracking into pieces.

"I take it you tried to discuss it with him once?" Gibbs broke his silence by asking.

"Oh no, we never discussed things in the DiNozzo household; that's not how it worked. He lectured and I listened." Tony paused before he continued. "No, he found out by accident, ironically enough, at another of his weddings. I think it was number three," and he was silent again, lost in the memory.

"Go on," Gibbs encouraged, not wanting to let Tony sink back into his silent world of private hurts and fears.

"I was a junior in high school, and had come home for the ‘blessed event.' The whole family always rallied around. After all, back then there was still the possibility that one might actually stick. First and last time I met that wife. Actually, that was the last Mrs. DiNozzo I was ever subjected to. Probably just as well; it was getting to the point that I was almost the same age as them." Then he laughed, although there was no real humor in his voice. "I'm sure that by now, I'm quite a bit older than them."

Tony rarely spoke of his father, and he had never talked about why they shared no real communication. Gibbs suspected that was about to change. "What happened?" he prompted.

"I was a lot less careful back then, and I was bored. You don't always think clearly when you're that age. I didn't know most of the younger people at the wedding, since I went to boarding school, and there hadn't been any girls that really caught my eye. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for the boys. One of the men who worked for my father had brought his whole family, including his college aged son. We hit it off, and I was flattered that a college boy wanted to hang out with me. We were behind the pool house, his tongue shoved all the way down my throat when my father found us. Not exactly the wedding gift my father had been hoping for, I guess." Tony stopped talking, and started rocking again as he recalled what had happened. He gazed off in space, not looking at Gibbs when he resumed speaking. 

"He shoved the boy off me and dragged me into the pool house. When we got in there he dropped his hands, as if touching me somehow contaminated him. I heard about what a disappointment I was, and how I disgusted him. He then proceeded to inform me that homosexuality was a sin, and that no son of his was going to be a pervert, and embarrass him in that manner. ‘No son of his,' as if he had a few spares sitting around, ready to take my place. I snapped - told him I'd do what I pleased, and that he couldn't stop me. I called him out on the women and the booze; said he didn't have any room to talk. I'd never done anything like that before, and once I started, I couldn't seem to stop. He let me go on for a while, probably too stunned to say anything. No one ever disagreed with the mighty Anthony DiNozzo, Sr. Finally, he backhanded me so hard he loosened a tooth, and told me to go pack my bags - I was going back to school. Said he didn't want to see me again until I apologized, and could assure him that something like this would never happen again. That was over twenty years ago. Haven't seen him since."

Gibbs wasn't sure what to say. He'd known Tony's relationship with his father was strained, he just hadn't been aware it was this badly broken. "Have you talked to him?" he asked quietly.

"We communicate through letters, only when necessary. He made it clear that I wasn't welcome at any family events. I have no idea how he explained away my absence. For years he'd end each letter by asking me if I had considered what he'd said. I'd always start my response with, ‘I'm still thinking about it.' Once I told him I was still sampling from both trees, trying to decide which fruit was sweeter. It's been awhile since he's asked."

Gibbs almost wanted to laugh. That was so typically DiNozzo, covering his hurt with a smart assed comment, even in a letter. He couldn't understand Tony's father. How could you cut yourself off from your only child, no matter what they did? Even when he had been so angry at the world that he'd shut his own father out, Jack had repeatedly reached out to him, and a part of him had known that he would always have a place to go if he needed it. How must Tony feel, knowing that his father didn't want him, was revolted by him? 

"You didn't believe him, did you?" Gibbs needed to know.

Tony looked up at him. "At first I did. How could I not? It was years before I did anything with another man again. It didn't change the fact that I found them as attractive as women, but every time I thought I could do something about it, I'd hear my father's voice. By the time I was in my mid twenties, though, some of the sting was fading. I'd gotten used to being on my own, and was ready to risk letting that door stay closed permanently. The first time it happened, it was almost an accident. A wild party - too much to drink. Funny thing was, the next morning the world hadn't ended, and I felt just the same as I had the day before. Maybe a little sore, and a lot satisfied, but basically the same," he said with a small, but real smile. His eyes sought out Gibbs', boring into him, refusing to let them go. "I've never regretted my decision, Jethro, but it doesn't stop the letters from hurting. I'd just forgotten how much  
I'd missed, never seeing my family, not knowing what was going on."

"You have a new family now, Tony," Gibbs said, as he finally approached him and reached out to touch Tony's face softly.

Tony pressed into Gibb's hand, and then turned to kiss the roughened skin of the palm that encased his cheek. "That's what I finally realized," as he reached out, to draw the other man down to him. "I don't think I'm going to answer this one," he whispered, as Gibbs folded him into his arms.


	9. Not Nine O\'clock

"Not Nine O'clock"

You find your home, and it may not be what you thought - you know; colour's off, style's wrong... but there it is anyway and to hell with you if you can't take a joke. Brad Silberling for Moonlight Mile

 

"So I've been researching dogs, ever since you said you wanted to get one," Abby said.

"Yeah, me too," Tony answered.

Gibbs froze. Standing at the top of the stairs leading to his basement, looking down, he couldn't quite believing what he was seeing and hearing.

"Do you know Gibbs once called me a faithful St. Bernard?" Tony asked Abby. They were lying on the floor in Gibbs' basement, side by side, their heads and torsos under the frame of Gibbs' boat, a pair of denim clad and a pair of red and black striped covered legs sticking out - just like the Wicked Witch of the East's after the house fell on her in The Wizard of Oz.

"Yeah, but I think he got it wrong. You're nothing like a St. Bernard. They're big and hairy and drool all the time. I haven't seen you drool in years," she said. "I think you're much more like a Labrador Retriever. They're friendly, and everyone loves them. They're incredibly loyal. Labs are also mischievous, and need a lot of training, while St. Bernards are calm and dignified."

"Hey, watch it kiddo," Tony said, as he rolled over to tickle her. Abby shrieked with laughter as she scooted away to avoid Tony's onslaught. "Gottcha," Tony crowed, as his hands made contact with her ribs. "Say Uncle," he demanded, as he tickled her relentlessly, while she giggled helplessly, biting her lips to avoid surrendering. "Go on, say it!" 

Gibbs could see the black and red striped legs thrashing about.

Finally, unable to help herself, she screamed, "Uncle, Uncle, Uncle." 

"I think you'd be a Border Collie," Tony told her, as their laughter began to subside.

"Aaaww, I like them; they're pretty. Thank you Tony," Abby beamed over at him. "They're smart, too!"

"Yep, and also a little aggressive, OCD, and perform tricks for treats. Caf-pow, anybody?" Tony snorted, and then he began to laugh again when she reached over to smack him, which set off another round of tickling and playful slaps.

Gibbs had to stifle a laugh, not wanting them to know he was there yet, as he settled down on the top step, curious to see how far this would go. 

"Ok, ok, Uncle," Abby gasped again.

"So, what kind of dog do you think McGee would be," Tony asked her. Gibbs saw his legs rolling to the side, as he turned to look at her.

Abby's knees drew up, and her right leg crossed over her left, swinging up and down as she thought about the question. "I think he'd be the world's tallest Basset Hound. He's got the sad eyes look down pat, and bassets aren't aggressive, and like to be played with."

"I'm not touching that comment," Tony smirked, "but I'd agree that he looks a little like one. He's even got that soft, skin fold thing going on under his chin," and he rolled out of her reach, before she could hit him again.

"What about Ducky?" Abby asked, as she settled back down, leg once again bouncing up and down.

"Got that one down. He'd be a perfect Kerry Blue Terrier. The book I read said they come in various shades of grey. They can be stubborn, are determined, alert, irrepressible and like to bark a lot, and God knows - Ducky likes to talk!" Tony said, cracking himself up. That set Abby off, and it was several minutes before either one of them was able to talk again. Sitting on the stairs, Gibbs was having a hard time not laughing out loud. 

Once they had themselves more or less under control, Tony sighed, "I suppose we should get back to finding the cap for the bourbon."

Gibbs right eyebrow shot up almost to his hairline, and he stood silently so he could see his workbench. Sure enough, sitting on the countertop was his bottle of bourbon, open, and considerably less full then the last time he'd looked at it. Well, now he knew why they were under the boat, and so giggly.

"Relax," he heard Abby say. "You told me Gibbs wouldn't be back until nine o'clock, and it's only about seven now. We've got time to find the cap, and have a couple more drinks. Besides, we haven't done everyone yet. What about Vance? What do you think about a Bulldog?"

"Well, they look right, with those bowed legs and sour looking faces. The temperament's all wrong though. I really looked into them - thought they might appeal to Gibbs. Did you know they're really supposed to be sweet and gentle? Don't think anyone would describe good old Leon that way." 

Gibbs smirked as he sat back down. Tony had that one right - sweet and gentle were probably dirty words to Vance.

"How about a Pit bull then," Abby suggested. "Did you know they're illegal in some places, and in France, they have to be neutered by law?" she started giggling again.

"Just picture Vance walking around with a muzzle on," Tony choked out, as he too succumbed to another round of laughing as Abby barked out an indistinct, "DiNozzo. Where's Gibbs?" Gibbs almost lost it then, too; he knew she must have a hand over her face, mimicking a muzzled Vance.

"I'll drink to that," Tony exclaimed, and Gibbs heard glasses being clinked together, as Abby responded with a "Bottoms up!" 

"What about Gibbs?" Abby asked slyly.

‘Here we go,' Gibbs thought. ‘I was wondering when they'd get around to me,' and he leaned forward, eager to hear what Tony suggested.

"That's a tough one. He's complicated," Tony mused. "There are lots of different sides to him."

"Yeah, his left side and his right side," Abby sassed, and with that, they were off again - tickling, slapping and squealing with laughter, until Abby said, "Careful, you almost spilled my drink. What would Gibbs say if he got home and I reeked of bourbon? It'd make him wonder why you were plying me with alcohol," she teased, laughing when Tony snorted in lieu of any other rejoinder. "Okay, back to Gibbs. What is his doggy alter ego? How about a Rottweiler? They're strong and brave," Abby suggested to Tony.

"I thought about that, but it doesn't quite fit," Tony answered. "They're too common."

"Heaven forbid we imply Gibbs is common. What about a Pointer?" Abby offered.

"That's closer. They're graceful, proud and hunt-oriented. But they can be too boisterous. They don't have quite the right energy," Tony said, rejecting the suggestion.

"Maybe a mastiff," Tony said thoughtfully. "They're one of the strongest breeds, and guard those they love, and their homes fiercely, but they can be gentle, too."

"Oooh - gentle too!" Abby giggled as she mimicked Tony. "I read they need a lot of exercise. Do you exercise Gibbs regularly?" she asked.

And the war was back on. Finally, when Tony had a compulsively giggling Abby pinned to the ground, as he covered her with his whole body to hold her down, Gibbs couldn't resist interrupting. Standing up, he walked stealthily down the stairs. When he got to the bottom, he cleared his throat and said, "Something I should know about? Hope this isn't what it looks like!"

Abby shrieked and Tony jerked up, banging his head on the bottom of the boat. "Fuck!" he cursed loudly.

"I was really hoping you weren't," Gibbs growled, knowing they couldn't see the amusement on his face.

Abby and Tony shot out from under the boat, covered in sawdust, their faces flushed, and their hair and clothes askew from the wrestling. Gibbs worked hard to keep from laughing, as he tried to scowl at them, his eyes sweeping over them, top to bottom, taking in their disheveled appearance.

"It's not what you think, Bossman!" Abby squeaked, at the same time, Tony was saying, "We were just looking for something."

"Oh?" Gibbs said, lacing his voice with doubt. "Under the boat?" He was amused to see them desperately trying to work through their bourbon impaired reasoning, searching for the words that would make everything clear to him. Something caught his eye when he glanced down, and he nearly choked on his own muffled laughter when he realized what it was. He quickly looked back up, fixing Tony with a glare, working to get himself back under control before either Abby or Tony noticed.

Deciding that honesty might be the way to go, Tony manned up. "We were having a drink, and the cap to the bottle rolled under the boat. We were down there looking for it," he said, giving Gibbs his best innocent, little boy look.

"My bourbon, I suppose? And you were on top of Abby because...?" Gibbs paused, waiting for the answer.

"We were just joking around, and got carried away. It ended up in a wrestling match. Tony had to cheat by using his size to win," Abby explained, her smile rivaling Tony's as a picture of innocence. 

"And did you find it?" Gibbs asked.

"Find what?" Tony asked, clearly rattled, and not thinking clearly.

"The cap, DiNozzo - for my bottle of bourbon," Gibbs prompted, finding it harder and harder not to laugh at them, and show his hand.

"Oh, that cap. No, not yet Boss," Tony said, falling into his dutiful agent role unconsciously.

"Maybe that's because it rolled out from under the boat," Gibbs suggested, as he bent down and picked up the cap, which lay on the ground, next to his feet.

"That could be why," Tony agreed abashedly. Then, because he was Tony, he couldn't help but ask, "So, can I get you a drink, Gibbs?" with a twinkle in his eye.

"I'd better have one now, while there's still some bourbon left," Gibbs agreed, amused to see Abby visibly relax and bend back down to fish out Tony's and her glasses.

After drinks had been served all around, Gibbs said, "A Dalmatian."

"Huh?" Tony said, confused.

"A Dalmatian. That's the kind of dog I want. They remind me of you - good carriage, playful, energetic but a little high-strung, need constant grooming, and require firm, consistent training." When Abby burst out laughing, he finally allowed himself to join in.


	10. Take Ten

"Take Ten"

Tenth Installment in the Home Is .....Series 

"A true lady or gentleman remains at home with a grouch same as if they had pneumonia" Kin Hubbard

 

"No, I don't want any chicken noodle soup," Gibbs snapped, as he reached for another kleenex from the box on the bedside table, and sneezed violently into it. "I'm sick of chicken noodle soup."

"I was just asking," Tony said, raising his hands in mock surrender, as he sat at the foot of the bed looking at the other man. "How about a cup of tea, instead?"

"And I don't want tea, chicken broth, orange juice, grapefruit juice, jello, or sherbet either!" Gibbs barked, glaring at Tony from the bed he lay in.

"Ducky said....."

"Ducky says lots of things, DiNozzo. No one listens to everything he says," Gibbs retorted.

"Yeah, but...."

"No buts about it," Gibbs paused to sneeze again. After grabbing another Kleenex, he glowered at Tony and asked, "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"I'm not going in today. The team's on stand down, and McGee can review cold cases without me there. Ducky said it would be better if I stayed...." He was interrupted again.

"Tony!" Gibbs warned, matching his tone with the ferocity of his glare. 

"Okay, okay. So, how about I put in a movie, and you can watch it while you lie there?" he suggested, in a conciliatory voice.

"I don't feel like watching a movie right now." Under his breath, he muttered, "I never feel like watching a movie." Then he awkwardly extracted his legs from the bedcovers, and stood on shaky legs.

Tony was on his feet in an instant, hands extended in case Gibbs needed steadying. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"Bathroom, and then to the kitchen for some coffee," Gibbs grunted, irritated by how much effort just standing was taking.

"Bathroom, yes. Kitchen, no," Tony said adamantly. "Ducky said you weren't supposed to be out of bed for anything but..."

"Where's my gun?" Gibbs growled.

"Why?" Tony asked, surprised by the question.

"Because I'm gonna shoot you!" The effect of the roar was lessened significantly by the coughing fit that followed, but once Gibbs had that somewhat under control, he stubbornly wobbled towards the bathroom.

Tony sighed, but surreptitiously followed. When the door slammed in his face, he leaned against the wall next to it, prepared to wait until Gibbs was done. 

"I can hear you breathing out there," Gibbs called through the closed door.

Tony didn't bother answering, he just continued to wait. He could hear Gibbs wheezing, as he struggled for air, and that served to strengthen Tony's resolve. After the toilet had been flushed and water run, signaling that Gibbs was washing up and brushing his teeth, the door opened again, and a pale, drawn Gibbs emerged. Again, Tony didn't comment, but he walked behind the sick man, who headed straight for the bed. 

When Gibbs had sunk back down on the bed, giving silent thanks to whatever gods had let him get back there without collapsing, which would have confirmed all of Tony's worries, he asked, "Are you intending to just follow me around and stare at me all day, DiNozzo?"

"Probably just the second part of that," Tony smirked. "I don't think there'll be too much need to follow you. Doubt if you're going too far."

"This part of Ducky's orders, too?" Gibbs wanted to know, as he weakly fished around under the pillow for the kleenex he'd had earlier.

"Nope, I came up with it all on my own," Tony said smugly, as he reached over and picked up the box of tissues, holding it out closer to Gibbs, so that he could get one without having to sit back up.

"And that's why you're not a doctor," Gibbs rejoined, but there was no real force to his words, and his eyes were beginning to close again.

Once Gibbs had fallen back asleep, Tony took the opportunity to clean up around him. Discarding used tissues into the trash can, and arranging the glass of water and box of tissues on the nightstand so that they were in ready reach of the sleeping man for when he woke up, he then pulled the covers up higher, so that only Gibbs' neck and head were exposed. That done, he sat back down on the bed and spent the next hour doing exactly what he'd promised - staring at the man in the bed. Gibbs coming down with pneumonia had scared him. He was the one who always got sick, the one with the weak lungs, not Gibbs. Gibbs was supposed to always be strong and well. A Gibbs who was too weak to be out of bed, who spent the night fighting for breath, didn't factor in Tony's world, and for the first time in a long while, Tony thought about the difference in their ages. 

What would he do if Gibbs died before him? He'd never really thought about it before. Oh, he knew that this wasn't going to kill him, but it did raise the question. When they had first gotten together, Tony hadn't let himself think about the relationship in long terms, but now, over two years later, it was impossible not to ignore. Before today, however, long term had consisted of such mundane things as vacation plans for sometime in the future that never seemed to materialize, or what they would plant in the garden the following spring. They'd never talked about what they'd do when Gibbs really did retire, or more to the point of his musings, what their individual wishes for funeral arrangements were. Did Gibbs even have a will, and if so, where? Would Gibbs find his - the one he had locked away in a safety deposit box at his bank? As he sat there, lost in those morose thoughts, he realized that subconsciously, he must have always expected to die before Gibbs, from some rare disease, a gunshot, or bomb, or even possibly a horrific car accident while Gibbs was driving. The last notion caused him to involuntarily snort, which helped him regain a modicum of perspective. Somehow he had always viewed Gibbs as Teflon coated, bad things might happen to him, but they just didn't stick. The pneumonia had shaken that image. Gibbs was just a man, as mortal as the next. 

‘I don't want him to die,' Tony thought. ‘Well duh, I'm sure he doesn't either, dummy,' he chided himself. He couldn't really imagine a world that didn't contain Gibbs, even though he wasn't sure when that had happened. He didn't have any interest in going back to dating women or men who always wanted more than he was willing, or able to give, or who had an image of him that was just too hard to maintain for any length of time. He didn't want to spend his weekends clubbing, or watching movies alone in his apartment. He liked the quiet companionship he'd found with Gibbs, the simple pleasure that came from being able to tell what another was thinking from just a quick look. He liked not having to explain himself, because he knew that Gibbs just got him, and being able to do the same thing for Gibbs in return. He cherished the security that came from knowing he wasn't going to be judged, and found lacking. That didn't even take into account the sex, the mind blowing, brain numbing sex - the sex that was better than he'd ever had with anyone else. He was in love, hopelessly in love, and he didn't want to be any other way. What happened to someone, when the person they loved most wasn't there anymore? Would he be able to survive that, the way Gibbs had when Shannon and Kelly had died? Would he even want to try?

On that depressing note, Tony heaved himself off the bed. He wandered down to the kitchen and looked around. There wasn't really anything for him to do. They'd cleaned the house from top to bottom this past weekend, having put it off for far too long, neither thinking too much about the cold that Gibbs was having trouble shaking. It was the cold that had prevented them from dirtying anything up again, once the cleaning was finished, since Gibbs hadn't felt like doing much of anything. So, when Monday had rolled around, and Gibbs' breath had become as short as his temper, Ducky had intervened, and insisted on the chest x-ray that revealed the pneumonia. Now it was Friday, and Gibbs was back home, having been released from the hospital yesterday afternoon, even though the doctor hadn't really wanted him to leave. It had only been Ducky's assurances that Gibbs would be carefully monitored and cared for, that had convinced the man to sign off on the discharge papers. So that was what Tony intended to do, even if it did get him shot, he thought with a small smile, remembering Gibbs' earlier threat. Walking over to the counter that the coffee maker held pride of place on, he prepared a pot, knowing Gibbs wouldn't be put off a second time. When he woke up next, he was going to need to have some coffee. ‘Guess coffee can wash down pills as good as anything else,' he told himself, as he watched the dark brown liquid begin to drip down into the carafe. Maybe he could use the coffee to bribe Gibbs, he plotted - a cup of coffee if he would drink some juice - two cups of coffee if he ate something, too. ‘That could work,' he nodded.

Reaching into the pantry he pulled out the bed tray and a can of soup, which he opened and poured into a microwave bowl. When the soup was hot, he got a glass of orange juice, which he placed on the tray next to the soup. Utensils, pills from the bottles he'd picked up at the pharmacy, and a large mug of coffee followed. Then, lifting up the tray, he climbed back up the stairs. The sound of a nose being blown alerted him to the fact that Gibbs was awake again. 

"I said I didn't want any soup," Gibbs growled, the moment he walked into the room bearing the tray. 

"But you do want coffee, don't you?" Tony asked, ignoring the stubborn set to Gibbs' chin, as he set the tray down on the dresser.

"You know I do," Gibbs answered petulantly.

"I'll make you a deal," Tony said. "One cup of coffee if you use this orange juice to take your pills, and two cups of coffee if you eat the soup." He waved the mug of coffee around in the air to tempt Gibbs.

"Fine," Gibbs grunted.

Tony set the coffee down, and grabbed the pills and juice. Taking them to Gibbs, he watched as his lover swallowed both down. "Soup?" he asked.

"Two cups of coffee, right?" Gibbs asked, demanding confirmation.

"Yep, I'll get you a refill as soon as you finish the one I have here," Tony agreed.

"Get me the soup, then," Gibbs sighed.

When Gibbs was done with the chicken noodle soup, Tony served him the coffee, and true to his word, he went and got Gibbs another cup as soon as the mug was empty. Settling back on the bed, next to Gibbs, he watched as the older man sipped the coffee, needing the comfort that being close provided. When Gibbs set the mug on the bedside table and lay back, Tony couldn't resist cuddling in close.

"Did Ducky prescribe this, too?" Gibbs asked, although he reached over and encircled Tony's shoulders with an arm, pulling him closer.

"Nope, this is more of Dr. DiNozzo's favored remedy," Tony murmured, his lips nestled against Gibbs' chest, where he'd laid his head so he could hear Gibbs' heart.

"What did Dr. DiNozzo say about kisses?" Gibbs asked.

"He's in favor of them. Said kisses make everything better," Tony answered, as he raised himself up till he was face to face with Gibbs.

"So if juice got me one cup of coffee, and soup got me two, what will this get me?" he asked, as he pulled Tony down into a deep kiss that was more about love than passion.

"A whole pot," Tony whispered, as he lay his head back down over Gibbs' heart, wrapping his arms around his chest, content for now just to lie there, listening to the steady beat of the most precious thing in the world.


	11. At The Eleventh Hour

“At the Eleventh Hour  
The Home Is…Series

“Trust allows you to give. Giving is abundant. Trust allows the experience of bliss. Bliss is awakefulness. Trust allows you to laugh. Laugh at the richness, the beauty and the playfulness of the universe. Apply consciousness to this process and all roads will lead to home.” Gary Zukav

A/N: The idea of Tony playing the piano was inspired by KSL’s brilliant “Adagio” and “Con Affeto”, two of my all-time favorite NCIS stories. If you haven’t read them, I can’t recommend them strongly enough!

 

Gibbs stood in the basement, sedately sanding away on his boat while he watched Tony out of the corner of his eye, as he sat in the rocker playing some game on his phone, fidgeting from one position to another. His…….. ‘Just what in the hell is Tony?’ Gibbs asked himself. ‘Significant other? Lover? ‘Friend’? Roommate? Reason for coming home every night?’ Tony was all those things to Gibbs, and more. Tony was a host of nouns and adjectives that Gibbs couldn’t, or wouldn’t, put into words; a collection of words whose sum total added up to the definition of Tony. And tonight, his…….Tony was antsy. 

He’d been that way all day. It had been one of those rare slow days at work when they hadn’t caught a new case, and all the paperwork from recent cases had already been typed, approved, and filed, so they were left with the mundane, tedious chores that had been put off for months – filing, restocking the truck, checking equipment, and when truly desperate, reviewing cold cases. Tony had spent the day flitting from one task to another, never settling down into just one, a ball of barely contained energy that threatened to spontaneously combust at any moment; Gibbs had spent the day ignoring it. There had been an air of expectancy surrounding Tony all day, and every time the elevator doors had opened, he’d looked up hopefully, eyes following those that exited until it became clear that they were busy going about their own private tasks, tasks that didn’t involve Tony. Once he realized that, he would sigh quietly, glance at Gibbs, then turn his rather limited attention back to whatever he had been doing moments before. When lunchtime had rolled round, Tony had asked everyone on the team if they wanted to go out to lunch, only to have each person tell him they already had plans. After striking out with Ducky and Palmer, too, he had wandered back to his desk dejectedly. Gibbs had sat at his desk, watching all of this, without comment. 

On the ride home that night, Tony had tried to talk Gibbs into going and seeing a movie, and Gibbs had put him off, saying he just wanted to go home and have a quiet, uneventful evening. Tony had then suggested they go out to eat. “What in the hell’s up with you today?” Gibbs had asked. “Is there something I should know? You haven’t been able to focus on anything for longer than fifteen minutes all day long. Now you don’t seem to want to go home. It’s Friday, Tony. We’ll have all weekend to do something. I just want to work on the boat tonight.”

“Nothing’s up,” Tony had told him, all but pouting. “I just thought it would be nice to do something tonight, but if you don’t want to, that’s fine. No big deal. Let’s just go home,” he’d said as he slumped down in the car seat.

It had taken all Gibbs’ self control to keep from grinning right then and there.

When they’d gotten home, Tony had headed straight for the electric keyboard they had bought the month before, and spent over an hour playing mournful, bluesy music that he improvised as he sat in the dimly lit study. Before adjourning to the basement and his boat, Gibbs had spent several minutes standing in the doorway, content to just listen, and watch Tony as he lost himself in the music. He hadn’t realized Tony even knew how to play the piano until several weeks ago when they had been called out on a case. The body of an eighteen year old sailor had been found in a jazz club on the south side of the city, and once they had processed the scene, Tony had strayed over to the old upright piano tucked in the corner of the club, and reverently run his hands across the old ivory keys, now yellow with age. From there he had progressed to playing a haunting little melody that he later told Gibbs was a Brahms lullaby he’d learned when he first started playing, as a child. Gibbs had asked him why he had never mentioned it before. Tony had given a little laugh and pointed out that there hadn’t been much point, since he didn’t have a piano anymore, and that besides, it had been so many years since he’d really practiced, he wasn’t sure if you could truly say he played the piano anymore. The following weekend, at Gibbs’ insistence, they had gone to a local music store and bought the keyboard. 

It had taken Tony a solid week of practicing before he would let Gibbs officially listen to him play anything, and even then he had apologized for being so rusty. Gibbs, on the other hand, had been impressed by Tony’s skill, and had told him so. Gibbs wasn’t a music aficionado, but he knew enough to recognize true talent when he heard it, and even on that little electric keyboard, the music Tony had played was compelling and sweet. Ever since then, Tony would spend at least an hour each day playing. Gibbs had been surprised by the type of music Tony seemed to gravitate towards. Somehow or the other, he’d expected Tony to favor loud, up tempo jazzy music, yet instead, Tony was now the proud owner of book after book of sheet music, most of it made up of movements for piano by various classical composers. The only times he played what would be considered contemporary music were moments like that night, when he would sit at the piano and let himself sink into the music, improvising and giving voice to the music that played in his head. When Tony had started to play sad, dirge like variations on the birthday song, Gibbs had choked back his laughter and headed down the stairs. 

Tony had drifted down the stairs around seven o’clock, carrying two plates of warmed over lasagna. “Thought you might be hungry,” he’d said, as he placed one of the plates on the counter beside Gibbs.

“Thanks. Was getting that way. Done practicing?” Gibbs asked.

“Yeah, couldn’t seem to get into it tonight,” Tony explained, as he’d eased himself down into his rocking chair. “How’s it going down here?” he’d asked, although he’d sounded rather indifferent. The comment had been more to have something to say, rather than to satisfy any real curiosity, Gibbs suspected. 

“Going fine. May be able to get that new support beam laid in tonight,” he’d told Tony. “I’ll know in a couple more hours.”

Tony had winced and looked at his watch at that point, then sighed deeply and resumed eating the rapidly cooling lasagna. “Want to go for ice cream? I really feel like cake, but I could settle for ice cream. How about you?” he’d asked Gibbs when they were both done with their dinner.

“Nah, probably shouldn’t. Need to watch my weight,” Gibbs had answered. “If you’re bored why don’t you go watch a movie?” he’d then suggested.

“Not in the mood,” Tony muttered. “I’ll just sit here and watch you work for awhile.”

“Suit yourself,” Gibbs had grunted, and resumed working on his boat. 

Tony had sat silent for about ten minutes before the urge to do something had become too great, so he’d pulled out his cell phone and begun playing Tetris. Now, an hour later, he was showing signs of restlessness again. Putting the phone away, he sat and rocked, as he regarded Gibbs.

“Almost done?” he asked Gibbs.

“I told you I wanted to work a couple more hours, at least,” Gibbs said, privately amused when Tony rolled his eyes.

“I can think of something more entertaining to do,” Tony said in a low and seductive voice.

“Not in the mood right now,” Gibbs told him, even though that was a bald faced lie.

Tony looked at him, stunned. Gibbs was almost never ‘not in the mood’, especially on a Friday night, when they didn’t have to get up the next day at the crack of dawn. “Think you might be in the mood later?” he tried again. “What if I were standing here in my birthday suit?”

“Then you’d probably be cold,” Gibbs cracked. “Maybe later, Tony. Why don’t you go find something to do,” he suggested.

“I’m fine here,” Tony muttered. 

Gibbs covertly watched as Tony repositioned himself, this time sitting sideways in the chair, his long legs dangling over one arm. 

“Hey, remember your birthday?” Tony asked Gibbs after a while, from out of the blue.

Gibbs wanted to smirk. He’d wondered when Tony would get more direct. “Kinda hard to forget,” he’d growled, as he recalled what had happened. 

Tony had gotten everyone at NCIS to dress in black that day, and must have, at some prior time, passed out black mourning bands for their arms, because when he and Tony had arrived that morning the bullpen looked more like a viewing at a funeral home than a federal agency. McGee and Abby had obviously been co-opted into the plan, because black crepe paper streamers had been draped from the light fixtures which hung over the team’s desks, and a bouquet of black helium filled balloons – with an assortment of disparaging remarks about old age and being over the hill printed on them - were tied to the back of Gibbs’ chair. An inflatable hernia cushion had been placed on the seat. When he’d turned his computer on, he’d discovered that someone had readjusted his monitor, zooming the images 25%, and he’d had to bark for McGee to come over and restore the original settings, something he’d secretly regretted. He hadn’t been aware that you could do that to a monitor, but he wasn’t willing to admit that it had been easier to read his email with the image size enlarged. His phone had been tinkered with, as well. The volume had been turned up all the way; it was so loud that everyone within a ten foot radius could hear the callers.   
All through the day, every time Gibbs had stepped out of the bullpen for any length of time, anonymous, unwrapped gifts would mysteriously appear on his desk, just waiting for his return. Among the offerings, he’d received a bottle of geriatric vitamins, a box of adult diapers, denture cleaner, a package of prunes, a hot water bottle, a large print copy of a book called “Social Security and You”, and a small box that contained a set of hearing aids. Gibbs had refused to comment, and had spent the day picking up the offending objects and piling them on Tony’s desk. Tony had spent the day watching the goings on with a self satisfied smirk on his face. Everywhere Gibbs went in the building that day, he’d been bombarded by birthday wishes; even the janitors seemed to know what day it was. Gibbs could only assume that Tony had sent out a companywide email, announcing the ‘momentous’ event to one and all. At the end of the work day, Tony had led Gibbs down to the morgue, where Abby, the rest of the team, Jimmy Palmer, Ducky, and even Vance stood waiting, and they’d had an informal birthday party, where real gifts were finally given. On the drive home that night, Gibbs had reminded Tony that turnabout was fair play.

He’d never mentioned it again, but he hadn’t forgotten, either. That was what Gibbs was doing today. He was finally getting his turnabout. Rather than make a big deal about Tony’s birthday, he’d decided to do just the opposite. He’d chosen to ignore it, and he’d made everyone else at NCIS pretend as if they didn’t know it was Tony’s birthday either. Gibbs had known that would drive Tony crazy, and he was just enough of a bastard to do it. He also knew Tony well enough to know that much as he wanted people to acknowledge his birthday, he had too much pride to directly remind anyone of what the day was. So he was forced to suffer in relative silence. It wasn’t as if he necessarily wanted everyone to make a big deal out of the day, but Tony would have been expecting Abby, and of course Gibbs, to wish him well, and give him some sort of memento in honor of his birthday. Instead, he hadn’t even gotten one single “Happy Birthday”.

“Gotta admit, I got you good. Bet you never got that much attention on your birthday before, Jethro,” Tony persisted. “I doubt if you’ll be able to top it,” he challenged, and looked at Gibbs expectantly.

The almost naked appeal in Tony’s eyes made Gibbs momentarily regret his plot. If he didn’t know the rest of the plan, he’d be worried that Tony’s birthday would be completely ruined. As it was, he told himself it would be okay for Tony to fret just a while longer, that everything would turn out alright in the end. “Not even gonna try,” Gibbs answered Tony, and then resumed sanding on the boat, signaling the end of that conversation.

The sigh Tony released was equal parts frustration and irritation. He couldn’t believe that Gibbs had forgotten his birthday! If this had happened a couple of years ago, Tony would have been convinced that this was proof that Gibbs didn’t really care about him. But their relationship had changed over the last year, and Tony no longer doubted the depth of Gibbs’ feeling for him. They might not spend a lot of time pledging their undying love to each other, but enough had been said that there was no mistaking that they were both in it for the long haul. That was what made today so unfathomable for Tony. He just couldn’t understand how the date could have slipped Gibbs’ mind, but none of his nudging and hints had done any good. Finally, deciding there was no point in sitting down there any longer, Tony pushed himself up onto his feet. Going over to the cabinets, he grabbed Gibbs’ dirty plate.

“Where are you going?” Gibbs asked him. 

“Gonna take these up to the kitchen, then figure I might as well go to bed. Feel free to wake me when you come up,” Tony told him, as he bent to retrieve his own discarded plate and silverware.

Gibbs snuck a look at his watch. It was almost nine o’clock. He just needed Tony to hold on for a little while longer. Putting the sander down, he went over to where Tony was straightening back up, and put his arms around the younger man, muzzling at the back of his neck. “This how you want me to wake you up?” he asked, as he ran his tongue along the edge of Tony’s earlobe.

Tony shivered, and leaned back into the embrace. “That might work,” he allowed, “but what would you try if it didn’t?”

“Maybe this,” Gibbs whispered, as he slid a hand up and ran it along Tony’s chest, while he pressed little kisses along his jaw line.

“I am feeling a bit more alert,” Tony said huskily, wishing he didn’t have the dirty dishes in his hands.

“That’s good,” Gibbs said, as his other hand slid downwards onto Tony’s hip.

Tony rocked back into Gibbs, trying to deepen the contact, as he let his head fall backwards onto Gibbs’ shoulder. Gibbs took advantage of the new position, and began to kiss and lick his way down Tony’s neck. “Need to put the plates down,” Tony finally managed to moan, wanting to be able to return Gibbs’ touch.

“Let’s take them up to the kitchen,” Gibbs said, after he gave a little nibble to the join between Tony’s neck and shoulder. Tony had shakily agreed, and Gibbs had followed him up the stairs. Once Tony had placed the plates in the sink and turned back around, Gibbs had placed his hands on either side of him, effectively trapping Tony against the counter, then he’d leaned in and captured Tony’s mouth with his own. 

Tony had just grabbed hold of Gibbs, pulling him even closer, when the doorbell rang. “Who in the hell can that be?” Tony had growled, not wanting to stop what they were doing.

“No idea. Why don’t you go and see,” Gibbs suggested.

“Maybe if we don’t answer they’ll go away,” Tony breathed as he tilted his head and kissed Gibbs again.

When the doorbell sounded again, this time in a series of insistent, rapidly repeated beeps, Gibbs pulled away from Tony and said, “Looks like they’re not taking the hint. Might as well go answer it.”

Tony gave a frustrated little groan. “Alright, alright,” he said, as he straightened up and began to head towards the front door. “But this had better be real important.”

He stalked through the living room and flung open the door. Crowded together on the other side of the threshold stood Abby, McGee, Ducky, and Jimmy Palmer, all laden down with bags and presents. “Happy birthday,” they all crooned, as soon as the door was open all the way.

Gibbs, who had followed Tony in, not wanting to miss his reaction when he saw who was there, smiled broadly at Tony’s shocked expression. Tony stood, his mouth hanging open, processing what he was seeing. 

Abby had balanced everything she was carrying in one arm, and she threw her spare one around Tony and kissed him soundly. “Hey there Birthday Boy. You didn’t really think I could forget what today was, did you? So, are you going to invite us in or what?” she demanded. “We come bearing gifts, champagne, cake and ice cream.”

“Of course,” Tony managed to say. Once they were all in, and Tony had closed the door again, he spun and looked Gibbs in the eye. “I can’t believe you did this. All day long I thought you’d forgotten!”

Gibbs just smirked at him. “Told you, turnabout. It can really be a bitch sometimes, Tony. Think we’re even now,” he said, as they trailed behind the others, as Abby led the way to the dining room where she intended to set up the refreshments.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Tony said quickly. 

“Are you admitting that I got you better?” Gibbs pounced on him.

“Not likely,” Tony snorted. “I’m saying that what I did on your birthday got under your skin more than this did mine. I barely noticed that you hadn’t said anything about my birthday.”

Gibbs laughed outright at that assertion. He then proceeded to regale the others with the hints Tony had dropped all night; telling them how Tony had said he was in the mood for cake, how he’d tried to get them to go out to dinner, and about the improvisations on “Happy Birthday” that he’d played when they first got home. The only comment he neglected to mention was Tony’s threat to appear in his “birthday” suit, although he intended to demand payment on that particular threat later. By the time he was done, everyone, including Tony, was laughing good naturedly.

It was close to midnight by the time the others left for their own homes. The presents had been opened, the cake eaten, the champagne drunk, and Tony was feeling good when he closed the door behind Abby, promising to call her in the morning. “So there’s still fifteen minutes left of my birthday. Want to go upstairs and continue celebrating?” he asked Gibbs archly.

“I haven’t given you my present yet,” Gibbs pointed out.

“That’s what I’m suggesting,” Tony said. “You were just getting warmed up when they arrived.”

“I’ll give you that, too,” Gibbs promised. “But first why don’t you go look out in the garage?”

Glee and anticipation transformed Tony from a mature federal agent into an overgrown kid, as he spun on his heels and headed for the door in the kitchen that led out to the garage. When he got the door open and the light switch on, he saw something tall, rectangular and large, covered by a tarp, standing alone in the middle of the garage.

“Go on, pull off the cloth,” Gibbs urged him from behind.

Tony stepped down, and crossed over to the mysterious object. As he pulled at the tarp slowly, he began to see the glint of highly polished wood. Tony tugged harder and the tarp fell away to reveal a beautiful, stunningly polished, mahogany upright grand piano. Tony’s breath caught in his throat, and he couldn’t make a sound. 

“The piano movers are coming back tomorrow to move it into the living room, and so is the tuner, but I wanted it here today so that you could see it on your birthday, even if it was in the eleventh hour,” Gibbs said quietly, watching Tony.

Still Tony made no sound. He just stood, his back to Gibbs, staring at the piano.

“If you don’t like it, or it’s the wrong kind, we can exchange it for one the better suits you,” Gibbs offered, unable to read Tony’s silence since he couldn’t see his face.

Tony spun to face him, his eyes luminous and swimming in unshed tears. “It’s perfect,” he managed to choke out.

Gibbs relaxed visibly. “I wasn’t sure. The salesman assured me this was the best I could do, short of buying a baby grand, and I just couldn’t figure out where we’d put that.”

“You didn’t need to do this,” Tony said softly.

“I know, but I wanted to,” Gibbs told him, as he moved closer. Reaching out, he put a hand behind Tony’s head, letting his fingers slid through the luxuriously thick hair, and pulled him in for a kiss. “Happy Birthday, Tony,” he whispered, when their lips finally parted, then he’d leaned back over, and kissed him again.


	12. The Home Is ......Series

“Twelve Steps To Understanding”  
The Home Is… Series

“There should be no yelling in the home unless there is a fire.” David McKay

 

Gibbs stormed through the front door, letting the screen door slam behind him, and headed straight for the basement, slamming that door as well. He was furious. So furious he couldn’t see straight. He was so angry he didn’t trust himself to say anything, not at all confident in his ability to control what might come out of his mouth, and now was not the time to say something wrong. He’d already done that, although he wasn’t ready to admit that culpability yet. He needed to be alone, to have time to get his emotions in check, and then he could think about how he was going to handle things.

Tony came into the house much more quietly. As a matter of fact, he’d been silent for hours, only answering questions that were posed directly to him, and then only with one or two words. After a while, people had just stopped asking him anything. He went straight up the stairs, heading to the bedroom. He wanted to go to the basement and curl up into a ball on his chair, but he knew that Gibbs would be down there, and Gibbs was the last person he wanted to see right then. As he walked along the upstairs hallway, he paused briefly when he came to the spare bedroom that had been transformed into a home gym. He supposed he could go in there, spend some time running on the treadmill and try to release some of his pent up emotions, but he didn’t feel inclined to expend that amount of energy. He hadn’t gone to the living room to sooth himself by playing the piano, either. He wasn’t ready to let it all go – to feel better. 

Gibbs stood beside the work cabinets in the basement, unsure of what to do next. His partially constructed boat, built of the finest woods, stood in the center of the room, whispering its siren call to him. Gibbs gritted his teeth and ignored it. He didn’t want to work on the boat, not tonight. He was afraid that in his present mood, he couldn’t give it the attention it deserved, and he wasn’t willing to risk making a mistake on something he’d invested three years in building. That was the same problem he was having with Tony. He didn’t want to make any more mistakes there either, and accidentally destroy something that had developed slowly, sometimes painfully, sometimes joyfully, over an eight year period. 

Tony toed off his shoes as soon as he walked into the bedroom, flicking them carelessly out of his way with his feet. He then yanked his suit jacket off, and tossed it onto the chair beside the dresser. It didn’t matter if the jacket wrinkled; the enormous hole in the back of it ensured that it would never be worn again anyway. Taking off his shirt proved to be more of a challenge, as his hands trembled so much that he had trouble pushing the little pearly buttons through the holes. Finally he gave up, and just yanked hard. Buttons scattered around the room, pinging off furniture and the wood floor, like tiny pellets of ice in a hailstorm, but at least the shirt was now open. Slipping it off his shoulders, he looked at it. It was trash; its snowy whiteness now marred by a deep red stain, all across its back. Shrugging, he tossed it on top of the jacket. Now he stood, bare-chested, in the center of the room, wondering what he should do next. He knew his side must hurt, but he was too angry to feel it right now. That would come later. 

Gibbs opened an upper cabinet and yanked down his bottle of bourbon. After unscrewing the top, he lifted the bottle to his lips, tipped his head back, and swallowed. The amber liquor burned as it made its way down his gullet, and he welcomed the sting. 

Tony undressed the rest of the way, until all he was wearing were the dressings they’d applied to his right side at the hospital. He was trembling, but it wasn’t from the cold.

Gibbs’ cell phone shrilled as he stood there drinking. He yanked it out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID – Vance. ‘He can go to hell,’ he thought as he threw the offending object across the room, and watched with some small satisfaction as it splintered into a dozen pieces when it connected with the concrete wall.

Tony’s phone began to ring. Making his way over to where he’d just tossed his pants, he dug it out. It was Vance. ‘Let Gibbs deal with him,’ Tony decided, as he pressed the ignore button on the side of the phone. Then he let the phone slip out of his shaking hands and drop back down on top of where his pants lay. Tony sank down on top of the bed, not having the energy to even try and pull the covers back, and thought about the day.

Gibbs drank again, as he stood trying to sort through everything that had happened that day. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

It had started out like almost every other typical work day, Gibbs remembered. When the alarm had gone off at 0530, he had poked and prodded Tony until he’d finally swatted his hands away and had rolled out of bed, grumbling under his breath, as he trod off to the bathroom to get ready to face the world. When they’d arrived at the Yard, he had made a beeline to the coffee kiosk in the lobby, while Tony had taken the elevator up to the bullpen. By the time he had gotten upstairs Tony already had his computer up and running, and was sorting through the emails that had poured in overnight. McGee had arrived not long after, and he and Tony had sparred verbally for a few moments, then McGee too had plugged into his computer. They’d sat there, each quietly working on their own projects for well over an hour before his phone had rung. Vance had been on the other end. 

“Gibbs, need to see you in my office,” Vance had grunted into the phone.

When he’d gotten to Vance’s office, the Director had quickly outlined an emergency undercover assignment he needed to put in place for an operation one of the other teams was running. He hadn’t liked what he'd heard, and pointed out some of the problems with the plan. Vance had nodded his agreement, but then explained to him why, despite the inherent danger, the sting had to occur that day. After hearing the reasons, Gibbs had been forced to concur. He had then suggested two newer NCIS agents who had extensive experience working undercover because of their previous jobs as police detectives. ‘Just like Tony,’ he’d thought, as he rattled off their qualifications. He didn’t mention Tony, though. The plan was just too sketchy, and Tony had been caught in another too hastily conceived operation not that long ago. Vance’s thoughts must have been traveling down a similar path, because when Gibbs was done talking, he’d asked about Tony. Gibbs reminded him about the drug bust sting that had gone sour, resulting in Tony having to shoot a teen aged boy, and suggested that it was someone else’s turn to take a risk. Vance hadn’t commented on that, he’d merely grunted, and then thanked him for the recommendations. Taking that as a dismissal, he’d gone back down to the bullpen.

Ducky had called him not long after that, he recalled, wanting him to look at something he’d found in an autopsy he was in the process of performing. He’d told McGee and Tony where he was going, and had gone down to see his old friend. Ducky’s discovery had resulted in a trip to Abby’s lab, so that she could run a series of tests on the mysterious fibers Ducky had found in the fatal stab wound of the young Marine he’d been working on. When he got back up to the bullpen, perhaps an hour later, neither McGee nor Tony was there. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

As he lay on the bed, his long legs dangling over the side, Tony let his mind wander back to the start of the work day. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gibbs was down conferring with Ducky, and McGee had gone to get both he and Tony some coffee, leaving Tony alone in the bullpen. When his phone had rung, he’d been surprised to hear Vance’s voice on the other end.

“DiNozzo,” Vance had said. “I need you to come up in my office.”

Figuring it wouldn’t take too long, Tony hadn’t bothered to leave a note before he went to see what Vance wanted. Before he knew it, he’d agreed to take part in an undercover operation Vance was being forced to throw together at the last minute. Apparently, Balboa’s team had been running surveillance on a known mob boss, Billy Salerno, who was using sailors to smuggle in young girls from foreign countries. The women were being forced to prostitute themselves, with the promise that they could earn money to buy their freedom. Of course, not a single girl had ever really succeeded in gaining her freedom. They all just seemed to disappear after a few months. Balboa had learned this morning, from an informant, that Salerno was scheduled to meet with the dirty sailors that afternoon, to take possession of a new shipment. This was the first chance they’d had to catch him red-handed, and they couldn’t afford to let it slip through their fingers. 

They were afraid to use anyone from Balboa’s team, for fear of the mobster recognizing them, since they had all been taking turns trailing him for over a month, and had gone to Vance to get outside help. According to the informant, the meeting was supposed to take place early that afternoon, at a dinner club Salerno frequented. They needed to get someone who was wired inside the club, and get the meet recorded. Vance had told Tony that he and Gibbs had discussed using either Andrews or Bennett, but that he was afraid they were too green, and wouldn’t be able to blend in with the late lunch crowd. What Vance had neglected to mention was that Gibbs had opposed the idea of using him, so thinking everything was kosher with Gibbs, he’d agreed to participate. 

Vance had then said they needed to leave immediately. They were supposed to meet up with Balboa’s team so that Tony could be briefed, and then they would need to give the techs time to get all the wires in place. The bullpen had still been empty when they left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Gibbs took yet another swig from the bottle, he remembered what had happened next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

He had been sitting at his desk, wondering where in the hell his two agents were, when McGee emerged from the elevator, carrying two coffee cups. “Sorry Boss,” McGee had cringed when he saw him. “I went down to get coffee, and got caught by Thomas Sebastian. It took me forever to get away. It won’t happen again. Uh, do you want this coffee?” he’d asked, after he placed one of the cups on Tony’s desk.

Gibbs had told him to drink it himself, and had settled back in to reviewing the reports he’d been looking at before Ducky had called, occasionally glancing up to see if Tony had returned yet. When almost ten minutes had passed, and there was still no sign of Tony, McGee had cleared his throat and asked, “Um Boss, where’s Tony?”

“I was kind of hoping you could tell me,” he had snapped, looking over at Tony’s vacant desk.

“I’ve got no idea. He was here when I went down to the lobby,” McGee had answered. “Maybe he left a note. Have you checked his desk?”

“No McGee, I haven’t checked his desk. I’m not his babysitter,” he’d slapped the folder he was folding down. McGee had wisely not answered, although he had craned his neck, looking for anything on Tony’s desk that might represent a note.

After another five minutes had passed, and there was still no sign of his senior agent, he had pulled his cell phone out and punched number one. The call had gone straight to voicemail. ‘I’m going to kill him,’ he had thought to himself, as he angrily punched the disconnect button. ‘How many times have I told him to never be out of touch?!?!?’ McGee had watched him furtively from his own desk.

Five minutes later he had tried again, only to get the same results. Just as he was beginning to get really mad, he remembered his conversation with the Director that morning. “Son of a bitch!” he’d said out loud, causing McGee to jump in his seat. He’d reached over to his desk phone and punched in an extension. He’d asked Vance’s secretary to connect him, and she’d told him that Director Vance was out overseeing an ongoing operation. When he’d asked if Agent DiNozzo had accompanied Vance, she had confirmed his suspicions, causing his blood pressure to skyrocket. Vance had gone behind his back and dragged Tony into a potentially deadly situation!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The stab wound in Tony’s right side was beginning to hurt as he lay on the bed, remembering what had happened.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

When they had gotten to where Balboa’s team was located, he’d reached into his pocket to get his cell phone so that he could give Gibbs an update, only to discover that he must have left his phone back at NCIS. ‘Swell,’ he’d thought, ‘that’ll go over big with Jethro.’ From there, things had gone even further downhill. The operation had been too hastily planned, and Tony had been forced to wing it. 

He’d gone into the club, carrying a briefcase he’d procured from someone on Balboa’s team, posing as a businessman, and had gotten a table for one. By the time the two sailors had joined Salerno at his table, his comlink with Balboa’s team had failed, and he had no way of knowing whether they were reading the feed from the miniature camera and microphone that had been planted on him before he had entered the restaurant. When Salerno and the sailors had gotten up to leave, he hadn’t had any choice but to follow them, since he wasn’t sure Balboa’s team had been able to hear where they were headed. He’d have to hope that at least the GPS tracker he was wearing was still functioning properly. 

He’d managed to follow them undetected as they’d gone around to the back of the club, where a huge delivery truck had been parked. He had immediately known that the women were inside. He had just been backing up, intending to go find the surveillance van, when two of Salerno’s toughs had grabbed him from behind. After a scuffle, he’d ended up being dragged down to face Salerno, who’d demanded to know what he had been doing in the alley. Salerno hadn’t been convinced by the story he had come up with, and had ordered his men to force him to talk. Balboa’s team had arrived just about then, but not before one of the thugs had slid a knife through his right side. His next clear memory was of the other NCIS agents unloading the girls from the back of the truck, just as the EMT’s were loading him into an ambulance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gibbs walked over to Tony’s rocking chair and eased himself down into it. The soft upholstered cushions enveloped him, and as his lay his head back, a familiar aroma wafted up to greet him. The chair smelled like Tony; a combination of his ridiculously expensive shampoo, the light citrus scented body wash he always used, and a musk that was Tony’s alone. He turned his head and buried his nose in the seatback, letting the scent start to sooth him, as his continued to think about the events of the day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Once he knew why Tony wasn’t there, he’d given in and gone over to his desk, hoping for some clue as to where the operation was taking place. He knew there wasn’t any point in trying to call Vance, the bastard wouldn’t have taken his call he was sure, since he wouldn’t want to hear what Gibbs had to say. There hadn’t been anything on the desk to help him out, but he had wanted to punch something when he’d found Tony’s cell phone sitting on its side, turned off, between two stacks of files. ‘Well, that certainly explains why he never answered the phone,’ he’d told himself, as he slid the phone into his jacket pocket. Frustrated, he’d gone back to his own desk. McGee had watched his every move but had wisely refrained from asking him what was going on.

It had taken McGee another hour before curiosity got the better of him, and he broke down and asked him what was happening. “Tony’s working an undercover op for the Director,” had been his terse answer. Upon hearing that McGee had winced; whether because of his tone, or because he remembered the last time Tony had done that, Gibbs didn’t know, nor did he care. 

By 1300 he couldn’t take it anymore. The silence in the bullpen was beginning to suffocate him. “Run a trace on Vance’s phone,” he’d ordered McGee. When McGee had gotten the coordinates, he had ordered, “Grab your gear. We’re going to check it out.”

For all intents and purposes, it was over by the time they’d gotten there, even though the area was crawling with squad cars and television station vans. Vance was standing in an alley talking with Balboa, while an army of agents were dealing with six men in handcuffs, and about ten hysterical Asian women. Techs were working the far end of the alley, fingerprinting, sketching and measuring. He hadn’t been able to see Tony. Vance had sighed when he saw Gibbs stalking over to him.

“Where’s DiNozzo?” he’d demanded, not bothering to say hello.

“You just missed him,” Vance had told him, and his stomach had clenched when a look of guilt had momentarily flashed across the Director’s face. “He’s on his way to Bethesda. He caught a knife in his side. He’s going to be fine. The medics didn’t think it hit anything. I was just getting ready to head over that way,” Vance had added, but he hadn’t answered. He was already on his way back out the alley, with McGee trotting along at his heels.

He had pulled the car up to the front of the emergency room at the hospital, slammed it into park, and opened the door. “Go on and park it,” he’d told McGee, as he climbed out, then he’d hurried inside. Looking around, he hadn’t seen anyone who looked familiar. ‘Had Vance let them take Tony without sending someone with him?’ he’d wondered in disbelief, as his anger ratcheted up another notch.

Once he’d established his right to be informed of Tony’s condition with the bitchy nurse on duty at the information desk, he’d learned that Tony wasn’t in the ER at the moment. They’d stitched him up, then sent him to X-Ray, to make sure the knife hadn’t hit anything important. He’d been forced to wait in the examination room until Tony got brought back downstairs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Tony’s side was truly throbbing by now. In an attempt to lessen the pain, he eased himself further up the bed, until he could get his legs up onto the mattress, too. That accomplished, he rolled onto his left side, drew his knees up closer to his chest, and closed his eyes. He wasn’t trying to go to sleep; he just wanted to lose himself in the blackness. His phone rang again, but he ignored it. It would be Vance, McGee, or Abby, and he couldn’t bring himself to talk to any of them right now, not when he couldn’t talk to Gibbs. As he began to drift on wave after wave of pain, he thought about the last words he and Gibbs had exchanged.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Gibbs had been waiting for him in the examination room, tight lipped and silent, when they wheeled him back in after having had x-rays of the wound taken. The doctor had looked at Gibbs questioningly, and Tony had quickly said that it was fine that he was there, that he was his boss and his emergency medical contact. After hooking Tony up to an intravenous antibiotic to prevent infection, the doctor had excused himself.

“Nice to know you still think of me as your boss,” Gibbs had said when they were alone, causing him to wince. “I wasn’t sure about that, since you didn’t feel the need to consult with me before you took an undercover operation, especially one as poorly planned as this was.”

“Vance said,” he had begun, only to be cut off by Gibbs.

“I don’t give a damn what Vance said, Tony. You should have known I’d want to talk to you. And you should definitely have known that this wasn’t going to turn out to be anything but a cluster fuck! What in the hell were you thinking?” Gibbs had hissed. “Or were you thinking? Of course, you couldn’t check in with me, could you, since you didn’t have any way to call me?” Gibbs had added, as he plopped Tony’s cell phone onto the gurney next to him. “Don’t need to say anything about that, do I?”

‘You just did,’ he remembered thinking, but not saying aloud. He’d been about to try again to explain to Gibbs what had happened, when Vance and McGee had appeared in the room. ‘Apparently I’m hosting a party and no one remembered to tell me,’ he’d thought, as he grunted his hellos to the new arrivals. Both of the newcomers were brought up to date on his condition. Wanting them to leave so he could straighten things out with Gibbs, he had assured them that he was fine and that they weren’t even keeping him overnight. Vance had told him to go home once they released him, that his report could wait until tomorrow. 

Gibbs had tersely informed Vance that he would take Tony home, and asked him to give McGee a ride back to the Yard. Vance had readily agreed, and then said, “He did good today, Gibbs. Real good. A more inexperienced agent wouldn’t have been able to handle the situation nearly as well, especially after we had equipment failures. He led us to where the women were being kept, and allowed us to catch all of them in the act.” 

Gibbs had looked over at him and glared. “He shouldn’t have been there, and you know it,” Gibbs had barked at Vance. 

Vance hadn’t responded to that, he’d merely given Gibbs a look that implied that this discussion wasn’t over, then he’d jerked his head towards the door, indicating that McGee should follow him. McGee had looked nervously between Tony and Gibbs, handed the car keys off to Gibbs with instructions on where he could find it, then hurried after Vance.

“You heard Vance,” he’d said to Gibbs once they were alone again. “I really did have it under control. And I’m sorry about the phone. Vance hustled me out of Headquarters so fast I didn’t have time to even think about it.”

“Oh yeah, I can see how ‘under control’ things were. How many stitches, Tony?” Gibbs had asked through clenched teeth. The throbbing vein on the side of his neck showing just how angry he was.

That was it. He’d gotten angry too, at that point. What right did Gibbs have to be so mad at him? He’d just been following orders, and it wasn’t his fault that everything had gone to hell! He was actually kind of proud of the fact that he’d remembered he was wearing the GPS chip, and that he’d succeeded in leading Balboa and his team to where Salerno and the sailors were keeping the girls. What would it hurt for Gibbs to acknowledge that he’d done a good job?!?! And the whole phone thing just pissed him off. It wasn’t as if he’d purposely left it sitting on his desk.

“What difference does it make?” he’d muttered, in response to Gibbs’ question about the stitches. “Two or forty, you’re still going to be pissed at me.”

“It matters ‘cause I need to know how long you’re going to be on desk duty,” Gibbs had snapped. “I can’t afford to be down another agent right now.”

“Of course, don’t know why else you’d be concerned,” he’d said, past caring if he sounded childish. “Fifteen stitches, and the doctor said I’d probably need to ride a desk for about two and a half weeks. Maybe you can get a temp in to take my place.”

Gibbs had just grunted. Neither of them had said anything to each other after that. His mood had deteriorated so much that he all but snarled his answers to the questions posed to him by the various nurses when they came in to check on him. When all of the antibiotics were in his system a couple of hours later, and he’d been unhooked from the IV, the doctor had released him, with prescriptions for oral antibiotics and painkillers, and strict instructions on how to care for the wound. He’d been forced to change back into his soiled clothes, since they were all he had with him. Gibbs had stared at the blood stains and rips when he slid them on, but had refrained from commenting. Once he was dressed, Gibbs had grunted, “Stay by the front door. I’ll bring the car up to the front.” He’d given a curt nod of the head in agreement. Other than Gibb’s order, “Give them to me,” in reference to Tony’s written prescriptions when they’d gotten to the pharmacy, they hadn’t exchanged a single word in over three hours.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Gibbs found himself rocking gently in the chair, as he sat, cocooned in Tony’s scent. His anger was ebbing, only to be replaced by something even more debilitating – fear. Gibbs didn’t know what to do. He and Tony had never really had a major argument before. Sure, they’d disagreed over things, bickered, even occasionally snapped at each other in irritation; but they’d never had the kind of door slamming, voice raising, and throw things at each other kind of fight. This was where he’d always screwed up in the past with his ex-wives. He wasn’t good at backing down, and was even less adept at making up. He had a tendency to walk away from conflict in personal relationships, to let things fester. The divorces had just been the inevitable conclusions to unresolved, ongoing arguments. He didn’t want that to happen with Tony, couldn’t let that happen. He didn’t know what had changed. Maybe it was him, maybe it was Tony. Maybe he was just older and wiser; or maybe he loved Tony more. He didn’t know what the reason was, and didn’t really care. All that mattered was that they get past this, that Tony stay here, where he belonged.

Tony rolled into an even tighter ball. He wasn’t angry anymore, he realized, just sad, so very sad. He was having more difficulty ignoring the pain, and the evening air was chilling his exposed skin. He longed to stand under a hot shower, let the hot water warm him as it washed the day away - made it vanish down the drain, but the wound prevented that. He wanted Gibbs to wrap his warm body around his, hold him in his arms, and make the ache disappear, but that wasn’t likely to happen. They weren’t speaking. Tony didn’t even know how the situation had gotten so out of control, why he’d gotten so mad. What was going to happen now? Gibbs didn’t apologize, and he didn’t like getting apologies either. So how were they going to fix things? 

Gibbs set the bottle of bourbon down on the ground and pushed himself out of Tony’s chair. ‘Tony’s chair,’ he thought to himself. ‘Tony's left a little bit of himself in every part of the house, even down here, in my private sanctum.’ His wives had refused to come down here, objecting to the sawdust, and resenting the time he spent working in the basement; but not Tony. Tony had embraced it, made a spot for himself down here, just like he’d made a place for himself in Gibbs’ heart. It had been a perfect fit. Then suddenly, things were so screwed up that he didn’t even know where Tony was right now. For the first time in months, he felt empty and cold, and wrong. He felt wrong. This was his fault. He’d blown everything out of proportion. He’d let his irritation with Vance, and his worry for Tony’s safety, get the better of him, and he’d lashed out at Tony. He had pushed Tony into retaliating. 'I need to make this  
right, and I need to do it now,' he thought, as he climbed the basement stairs. 

The house was dark as he made his way through the main floor. ‘God I hope he’s still here,’ he worried. He’d been so angry, that Tony could easily have come in, packed his things, and left, and he would never have been the wiser. He looked in the study, no sign of him. When he got to the stairs that led up to the second story, he paused, hoping to hear something that would reassure him that Tony was up there, but the house was as silent as it was dark. Silently offering a little prayer, Gibbs went up. There weren’t any lights on upstairs either, but his eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. He made his way down the hall, headed for the master bedroom. 

When he got there, what he saw almost made him collapse with relief. On the bed, lit by just a splash of light that spilled in through the window, lay Tony, naked and curled up in a tight ball, his back to the door. Gibbs gave thanks to whatever gods had listened to him. Tony was still here; he had a chance to repair the damage. Now he just needed to figure out what to say. Very quietly he moved towards the bed. He couldn’t tell if Tony was awake or not, and he didn’t want to startle him. 

“Tony?” he asked softly.

No answer.

“Tony?” he tried again when he got to the edge of the bed. 

Still no answer.

Gibbs eased himself down gently onto the bed, and reached out to touch Tony, right above the bandage on his side. Tony’s skin was ice cold. ‘What is he doing, lying on top of the bed, stark naked, when he should be under the covers?’ Gibbs wondered, but he wasn’t going to ask. He wasn’t going to say anything that could be construed as criticism. Not this time. He couldn’t see Tony’s face clearly yet, but for some reason he could tell that the younger man wasn’t asleep. Maybe it was the tension he could sense in Tony’s tightly coiled body, or maybe it was the rhythm of his breathing; Gibbs wasn’t sure. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For everything that happened today. For the way I jumped on you, for the things I said, and most of all, for the fact that you got hurt.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in apologies,” Tony whispered back, equally as quiet.

“That was before I had so much to lose,” Gibbs murmured, and waited to see what Tony would say.

Tony didn’t say anything for what seemed like an eternity to Gibbs. Finally, still not having responded, he rolled onto his back and looked up at Gibbs. Their eyes locked, and Tony continued to stare unblinkingly at him, as if he could tell what Gibbs was thinking, merely by looking at him. Maybe he could, for after a few moments Gibbs saw his face soften. Still not making a sound, Tony reached up for him. Gibbs didn’t hesitate. He bent down and pulled Tony into a tight embrace, burying his nose in Tony’s soft hair. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Tony finally broke his silence.

“I was so afraid you were going to be gone,” Gibbs admitting, hugging Tony even tighter.

“Not going to happen. Like you said, too much to lose,” Tony breathed softly.

Gibbs didn’t know if Tony would have said more, because as soon as the words were out of Tony’s mouth, Gibbs covered those lips with his own. The kisses they exchanged were gentle, but there was no hesitancy about them. They were kisses of affirmation; full of love and promises and commitment. 

Later, as he lay snuggled warmly under the blanket, and secure in Gibbs’ arms, Tony thought about how things had worked out. They’d never really discussed the fight, maybe they never would, and that was okay. They were here, home together, and nothing else mattered.


End file.
